


My Bleeding Heart

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aramis Whump, Asphyxiation, Athos Angst, Athos Whump, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, D’artagnan Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt without the comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, Sexual Assault, Snippets, Torture, trying to write something short for a change, whump for whump's sake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-08-14 05:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16486748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: A collection of short (for me) explorations into the sweet agony of being a Musketeer.  Expect anything that my wicked mind can produce.  Will rate appropriately as things get worse . . .Next Up: Chapter 9- Reckless? Foolish? Insane? Perhaps. But no risk is too great when it comes to saving one of their own.





	1. Collared and Chained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aggie2011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/gifts), [ficklescribbler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklescribbler/gifts).



> Because I’ve had this Bad Things Happen Bingo card lingering around on my mostly unused Tmblr page and Aggie2011 and Ficklescribbler inspire me with their Whumptober prompt fills and musketeer snacks and really, I wonder is it possible for me to write anything short EVER?? Let’s find out . . .

Prompt: Collared and Chained

xxx---xxx

“I think you have something that belongs to me,” Athos’s voice echoed in the nearly empty courtyard. 

“Cocky as ever, Olivier,” the man spat in the dust, showing just how unimpressed he was with Athos’s statement. “I suppose you got some speech you’re gonna give about law and order and justice.”

Duval hadn’t changed. Same overconfident arrogance. Same disregard for authority. Same deadly disregard for human life. Athos knew he should have killed when he’d had the chance in Pinon all those years ago.

“Release him,” Athos wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He only had one intention - to retrieve his brother and kill anyone and everyone who had dared to touch him, starting with Duval. Athos’s eyes flicked from the Duval’s crooked face to the broken figure huddled before him in the dirt.

Aramis knelt in the center of the courtyard, his knees splayed as he sat back on his haunches. Doublet removed, his typically pristine white shirt was covered in grime and dust -- and blood. He must have still been fighting after they took him, but not now. His head hung to his chest and he was leaning slightly forward, an odd position to hold given his obvious mistreatment. His arms were pulled behind him, thick leather bands holding them straight and tight. He had to be suffering in that position, but Aramis had not moved or shifted since Athos’s arrival. He was as lifeless as a ragdoll dropped by a careless child. Athos felt his chest tighten and he bit down on the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. There would be a reckoning for this but Athos couldn’t let his heart rule his head just yet.

Duval fisted his hand in Aramis’s hair and pulled back on the musketeer’s head, exposing his neck banded by a thick iron collar. It explained Aramis’s unusual position - the collar and short chain connected somewhere behind him kept him from pitching all the way forward. His eyes were closed, his face caked in dust. Blood ran freely from his temple and flecked his dry, cracked lips. Aramis didn’t make a sound when Duval grabbed him but his eyes opened the tiniest of bits. 

“Take your hands off of him,” Athos felt a calm descend over him at the confirmation that Aramis was still alive. The gut-wrenching fear of the last three days dissipated as a cold, white anger crept through his body. He had work to do. Duval was nearing his last moments on this earth and he’d be leaving by Athos’s hand.

“You don’t get to give orders. Now I’m the Lord of the Manor. Now you can beg me for his life the way I begged you for my father’s life.” Duval yanked again but still no sound from Aramis as he pulled his head further back, “You are going to know what it feels like to lose someone you love.’”

“That’s what your messenger said too, right before I killed him,” Athos said, cocking his head toward the horse he had earlier dismounted and giving the rein trailing in his hand a tug. The horse sidestepped and turned slightly giving Duval a better view of the cargo Athos carried. A body lay slung over the saddle, wrapped in a bloody brown cloak, a pair of distinctive red boots dangling from the other side of the great black beast.

Athos took distinct satisfaction in the pain that passed over Duval’s face. The man sputtered and a grievous cry was wrenched from his lips. Athos had hit home as he knew he would.

“I thought he looked familiar,” Athos said coldly.

“Bastard,” Duval looked ready to spring and if all went to plan, he would. Athos just had to push him over the edge to get him away from Aramis.

“He’s too young to have been your brother,” Athos mused, “Your son I suppose. A shame. He died like his grandfather, twisting at the end of my blade.” 

“I’ll see you rot in hell for this!” Duval choked, “I’ll tear your limbs off and feed you your own heart,” Duvall’s face was flushed, his hands tightening in Aramis’s hair. He reached behind him and pulled his main gauche, but instead of charging at Athos, he pressed the blade to Aramis’s neck. That was exactly what Athos did not want to happen. 

Duval growled and gave a nod of his head. Four men emerged from the shadows of the overhang, blades and pistols at the ready.

“Take your hands off of him,” Athos demanded, ignoring the threat of the other men.

“I’m going to rip his throat out Athos, and let you watch him die writhing in agony,” Duval’s grief morphed into a hot, pointed rage, and he yanked Aramis’s head back again, forcing the musketeer’s chest to arch upward yet unable to fully bend because of his bound arms. Still there was no sound from the captive marksman and Athos’s rage flared.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask,” Athos’s voice had the sharpness of rapier, “Release him.”

“I’m going to feed you his tongue before I put you down like the mongrel you are. Take him!” Duvall shouted at his men.

“I wouldn’t,” Athos snarled. “If you value your lives.” Even alone and without his rapier or pistols at his hip, Athos looked every bit the threat he truly was. The men hesitated, uncertain about taking on not just a legendary Musketeer but a man who had been a noble.

“Move!” Duval shouted in exasperation, “He’s one man, he can’t hurt you.”

“Wrong again, Duval,” Athos shouted as he rushed forward, ready to rip Duvall apart with his bare hands if he had to. Duvals men moved to intercept him but the corpse draped over Athos’s saddle surged up and started shooting. Two men went down on Athos’s left. A third made a grab for Athos but was caught by a dagger thrown from the entryway to the courtyard as the fourth was stabbed by Athos himself who certainly had not come unarmed and had dropped his main gauche into his hand from where he had tucked it in his sleeve. 

D’Artagnan sprang from the back of the horse as Porthos stepped over a dead body he pushed in from the entrance gate and together the two musketeers flanked their Lieutenant as they strode like demons from the mouth of hell toward the man holding their fourth at knifepoint.

“Stop or he’ll be dead before you take another step,” Duval pulled up again on Aramis’s hair, pressing the point of the blade into the soft flesh under Aramis’s chin. The marksman’s eyes flew open in panic and his lips parted as if to scream but all that came out was a gurgling, rattled breath. He heard Porthos gasp beside him as blood started to run freely from the puncture in Aramis’s throat, the marksman’s ragged breathing taking on an odd gurgling sound. All three men froze in their tracks.

“That’s right,” Duval’s lips curved up in an wicked smile, “Drop your weapons unless you want to see how much more blood I can squeeze from him.”

Athos considered his options. Duval was a madman and not only Aramis’s life was forfeit if they complied. He’d kill all of them as surely as he’d kill one of them. They could try talking, Duval certainly always had a lot to say, but Aramis looked in rough shape. Now that Athos was closer he could see the chafe marks from the iron collar around the marksman’s neck, the swelling and bruising on his face masked by the layers of dust. No, this ended now. It was time to take his bother back.

With a flick of his wrist, Athos flipped the dagger that he had been about to drop into a throwing grip and let loose the blade. Beside him, D’Artagnan and Porthos must have come to the same conclusion as three knives whirled toward their target. They all found marks but it was Athos’s dagger that was embedded itself into Duval’s throat. 

Stunned, Duval staggered backward, dropping his weapon and releasing his grip on Aramis. The marksman slumped forward, the chain and collar jerking against his fall. Porthos was on his knees immediately, catching Aramis by the shoulders to take the strain off of his neck. D’Artagnan held his place, slipping a second knife from his belt, at the ready in case Duval had more fight left in him than he seemed. But Athos barely registered any of this as he rushed forward to grab Duval by the collar. The man sunk to his knees, clinging weakly to Athos as blood poured from the wound at his neck.

“You will rot in hell for what you did to my son,” the man managed to hiss out between bloody teeth.

“Your son is fine, no thanks to you,” Athos said, “I didn’t kill him.”

“Then know this Athos,” Duval panted, his breaths coming in great gasps, “He will hunt you down and kill you, all of you, for what you have done this day.”

“Know this Duval,” Athos said, leaning down until they were nearly nose to nose, “He’s in custody for his role in abducting a Musketeer and will be at the end of a hangman’s noose before the week is out. You have lost everything. Take that to your grave.” Duval sputtered and opened his mouth to speak, but blood burbled from between his lips and he began to choke. He continued to clutch at Athos but his grip was losing its strength and only Athos’s hands on his collar were keeping him upright. His gaze met Athos’s and while the swordsman could see the desperate plea for mercy all he could return was a cold, steely glare that wished Duval swiftly to Hell. In another moment Duval was gone, the light fading from his eyes as Athos cooly watched.

Athos drop the man where he was and turned back to his friends. Aramis was slumped forward, head pressed against Porthos’s shoulder but at least the chain wasn’t pulling at the iron collar around his neck. D’Artagnan was using his main gauche to slice through the thick leather bands that tied the marksman’s arms behind his back. They were torturously tight, the flesh swollen where the straps bit into Aramis’s arms. Athos realized they must have been tied in place while the leather was wet and then shrunk around Aramis’s arms as they dried. It was abhorrent to treat a man so. Running between Aramis’s bound arms and along the line of his back was a thick wooden stake that was impaled in the ground between his feet. The chain ran through a metal ring in the top and then was linked to shackles around Aramis’s ankles. His own movement forward would have caused him to choke but with the pole in place there was no way to shift backward unless the marksman could hold himself upright. A simple and cruel torture and Athos fumed as he wondered how long Aramis had been trussed up like this.

“Porthos, get this off him,” Athos said quietly, fighting to keep control of his emotions. If he could, he would kill Duval again, and keep killing him until the entire courtyard ran red with his blood. Porthos nodded and eased Aramis back to lean against Athos as he went to search Duval’s pockets for the key. D’Artagnan finally got through the first strap, unbinding Arami’s upper arms. He got to work on the one around his forearms while Athos shifted out of his way. Aramis’s head lolled on Athos’s shoulder, no sign of life other than the blood that still flowed freely from the small puncture wound in the marksman’s throat and the rasping breaths that ghosted over Athos’s neck. Athos pulled his scarf from his own neck and gently pressed it to Aramis’s wound. Too much pressure would choke him, but the wound mercifully did not appear very deep and just the light pressure of Athos holding the scarf to Aramis’s neck would likely staunch the flow of blood.

Porthos returned to Athos’s side, two iron keys on a silver ring dangling from his fingers. The anguished look he exchanged with Athos was enough to make even the most hardened soldier weep and Athos felt tears rise in his eyes for the first time since this entire ordeal began. What Duval had done to their brother tortured them all. With utmost gentleness, Porthos carefully turned Aramis’s head to the side to get better access to the lock. He slipped in the larger of the two keys and Athos heard his sigh of relief as the lock turned with a definitive click. Taking the collar in both hands, Porthos gently maneuvered the iron band until it slipped free of the locking mechanism and opened. Athos wanted Porthos to hurl it across the courtyard but it was still attached by the chain to Aramis’s ankles so instead he put it down on the ground in far more careful a gesture than the object deserved. Athos reached between himself and Aramis and was able to easily pull up the stake, allowing the marksman to lean fully back against his chest. As he finished D’Artagnan cut through the last leather band and Aramis’s arms dropped limply at his sides

The motion must have caused great relief though as Aramis let out a strange little sigh and shifted against Athos’s shoulder.

“Aramis,” Athos said softly, shifting the arm that was holding Aramis to him to press gently at his sternum, “Aramis, we’ve got you. It’s over.” Athos was rewarded with a small whimper and a nearly imperceptible nod. Yes, Aramis knew they were there. Athos felt the tension start to unravel from his body even as Aramis sunk further into his hold. Porthos got his ankles free and they were able to carefully stretch the marksman’s legs out, although by the small distressed sounds Aramis was making Athos assumed this hurt very much. Cramped in one position for so long, it had to be torture to move now.

Porthos and D’Artagnan went to get blankets, water and bandages from the horses while Athos gently laid Aramis onto his back. He shifted the scarf and was pleased to see the bleeding had stopped but then got a good look at the raw red marks the collar had left. His gaze shifted to find Aramis’s eyes fully open, looking up at him with worry and fear.

“You’re alright,” Athos reassured him, brushing the marksman’s hair back from his face, “We’ll rest here a while, then get you back to the garrison, alright?” Aramis gave a small nod, then closed his eyes, face scrunching with pain as his body continued to react to the muscle cramps shooting through his limbs. They’d have to wait a while yet before they could even consider getting him up on a horse. They’d do their best to clean him up while they waited, get some water into him, bandage the worst of the wounds. 

Athos gently slipped his scarf under Aramis’s neck, then carefully wrapped it over the chafing and tucked in the ends. He knew there were bandages nearby but he didn’t care. If the others thought it odd as they joined him with the blankets and supplies none of them cared to say. Death had been too close this day and no one needed an explanation to understand a gesture of love.


	2. Hear Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Damaged Vocal Chords  
> Connected to: Collared and Chained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little blown away on the response to that first ficlet - thank you and I’m touched and glad to know it was liked. This one just happened to follow naturally from the first so was easy to write. I don’t know how often I’ll post more of these but right now, I seem to be on a roll. Thank you so much for reading and commenting :)

Before they found him, before Athos came for him, he thought the numbness creeping over his tortured body was his death. He had lost track of how long he had lingered on the threshold of oblivion but it had taken time, a long long time, for his contorted limbs to move from aching to agony to nothing. A long time before his parched throat give up the attempt to swallow where there was no moisture. A long time before his head fell weakly forward, choked by the iron collar with only enough strength left in his body to fight for each labored breath. Death was taking an excruciatingly long time. Then . . . Athos’s voice . . . and something stirred in his chest like a thread pulled taut, an anchor for his soul where it was trying to leave his body. He didn’t have the strength to move, to react, to call out but when his head was yanked back, stretching his overextended limbs to the brink, he managed to open his eyes enough to know that Athos was not just calling out in his mind. He was there, claiming him, and though Aramis thought he had been beyond enduring any further abuses he found he could not deny Athos. _You have something that is mine he’d said._ The thread connected to Aramis’s soul thickened. Aramis would not yield as long as Athos stood before.

The pain had been unbearable when they first laid him out, finally releasing limbs that had been bound and twisted for far too long. As the blood shifted back through his body, it brought fire along every inch of him. He knew he had not been flogged but he still felt as if his arms and legs were stripped from a thousand lashes. He knew the men holding him, moving his body to lay prone, were his friends, his brothers, he knew the torture was over but the pain bloomed all over again. He wanted to tell them to stop but he was beyond words. Soft sounds came from his mouth but he was hushed and ignored as someone gently laid him fully on the ground. Something soft pressed at his throat, a light pressure that still was too much. And then that was gone and Aramis found himself looking up at Athos. Athos who had come for him, who had chained his soul and dragged it back from the abyss he was being sucked into.

 _You’re alright, rest here a while._ And Aramis obeyed closing his eyes and trying to ride out the pain as every muscle in his body seemed to cramp. It came in waves - an agony in his calves that receded to a hot ache before his arm would start to twitch with painful spasms. As that subsided another leg cramp so painful it caused him to moan shamefully, tears sliding down his cheeks. It didn’t matter though. There were more hushed words, calloused hands with a gentle touch smoothing his hair, gently massaging his limbs, slowly putting out the fire in his body until the flames receded and instead he was simply and utterly exhausted. Then he slept.

Waking was not a singular event but a drifting in and out of a hazy limbo of ache and tired. He dreamed sometimes he was still chained there in the courtyard but then remembered as he lifted toward wakefulness that he was rescued, the hot fire in his legs a memory and what made his body shudder was actually a just a cramp or a muscle spasm. Mostly, he was whole. 

Finally he gave in to wakefulness, pulling tired and sticky eyes open to blink in the early morning light. His mouth was dry as the dust he’d been caked in and his neck had a dull ache throbbing in his throat. He shifted his head slightly to the left to find Athos, feet propped on the bed, hat pulled low, napping in the chair beside him. He found a smile tug at his lips - crazy bastard was all vengeance and murder one minute and then nursemaid the next. Aramis was beyond grateful for both.

“Athos...” he tried to say, but all that came out was a rasping, hollow croak. Surprised, Aramis tried again, pushing air more forcefully through his throat only to produce another ragged and wordless breath. He tried then to call out, panic forcing air out of his lungs and causing his throat to strain and burn but still no sounds. Desperate now to speak Aramis tried to push himself up into a sitting position with arms that still refused to bear his weight. He flailed, pushing at the blankets that seemed too heavy to move, terrified of the sounds coming from his mouth, the pain blossoming in his throat, his inability to utter a single word!

—xxxXXXxxx—

Athos woke with a start to Aramis struggling wildly in the bed, trying, and failing, to get out from under the blankets. Desperate and terrified sounds rasped from his throat as he tried to call out in panic and fear. Athos righted himself in the chair and leaned over the bed, taking the marksman’s shoulders and pinning him to the bed. It didn’t take much strength as Aramis’s muscles were still weak with exhaustion and overuse, but the plaintive sounds kept coming from his abused throat.

“Aramis! Stop! Stop it. You need to stop forcing it. Just breathe. You can’t speak. I know you can’t speak. Settle down. Just breathe.”

Athos eased up his grip on Aramis as the marksman calmed down and sat on the edge of the bed. As he sought Aramis’s gaze he watched it go from one of settling to a sudden flare of panic and worry, his brows furrowing in a question and distress and fear evident in his eyes. He was worried about something, desperate. 

“It’ alright. Settle, Aramis,” Athos said, considering what it might be that Aramis needed to know. What was frightening him. It clicked in immediately, “Aramis, you were wounded. Your throat. It has to heal. That’s why you can’t speak. Athos took up one of Aramis’s hands and laid it gently on the bandage around his throat, “Remember this? The collar? The knife?”

“It will heal Aramis,” Athos’s voice was quiet, calm, reassuring. He laid a hand over the one the marksman still had pressed lightly over his bandaged neck and gently pulled it away, “Leave it be now.” Aramis obeyed, letting his hand fist instead in the blankets beside him. 

“He’s confused,” Porthos said from over Athos’s shoulder as he watched Aramis’s eyes dart furtively around the room, “Athos, tell him where he is.”

“We are at the infirmary at Saint Suplice,” Athos explained to the marksman. Aramis’s brown eyes widened in concerned, “Don’t worry, you are not that badly off, my friend,” Athos gave him a gentle smile, “Just it was too much for you to travel all the way across Paris to the Garrison in the state that you were in. This was much closer and the Brothers here were happy to offer you some rest.” Athos’s smile deepened as Aramis began to relax again.

Aramis’s mouth formed the words “Thank you” but a rasping wheeze was all he could manage. His hand fluttered to his neck, rubbing lightly at the bandage. Aramis closed his eyes again.

“Here, leave that be,” Athos said taking up the marksman’s roving hand and laying it again by his side. He opened his eyes again, and there was something pleading about his gaze as his hand went again to his throat. Athos’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what Aramis was asking for. He laid a hand on his leg beside him and squeezed gently.

“You are in pain?” Athos asked, “Your throat is hurting?” The marksman gave a small shrug that maybe said yes or no, but then his eyes roved again until they settled on something across the room. Aramis struggled to sit up again.

“He’s thirsty,” D’Artagnan said from across the small room. Athos and Porthos turned to where the Gascon was sitting on the other narrow cot in the room, leaning on this knees, hands clasped between them. He rolled his eyes as the other two looked at him in confusion. “He’s thirsty,” D’Artagnan repeated and gave a nod toward the table between the cots, “The water pitcher?” He said, looking at the jug sitting next to four earthen cups.

“The water, is that what you want?” Porthos said. Aramis rolled his eyes and nodded, his arm gesturing ineffectively toward the pitcher. Porthos sighed 

“Well you could have just said,” Porthos muttered as he reached for the pitcher. 

Aramis looked stunned at Porthos’s callous remark. Then he let out a small croak and Athos reached again for Aramis,worried he was going to start coughing. But Aramis was not coughing. His face was still showing his pain but his eyes were crinkled and his lips turned up in a smile. He gave a little croak again and they realized he was laughing. Even Athos had to admit the comment was funny.

Porthos returned with a cup of water and eased it to Aramis’s lips. The marksman tried to swallow but after just two sips he pulled away with a whimper, face screwed up from intense pain.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos quickly set the cup aside and placed a concerned hand on Aramis’s shoulder, “I’m sorry. What did I do? What’s wrong?” Porthos looked back at Athos, fear and worry evident in his glance as Aramis struggled to fight against whatever was paining him.

“It’s too much,” Athos said, taking the cup and a clean cloth. He dipped the cloth in the water, soaking it thoroughly before passing it back to Porthos, “Here, try this,” he suggested.

“Put it in your mouth,” Athos said as Porthos got the cloth into Aramis’s hands and helped him raise it to his lips. Aramis bit down on it, “Just suck on that, it will be better than trying to swallow so much at once.” Aramis nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. They could see his jaw was working as he forced the water from the cloth. 

They were silent a moment as they watched him, helpless as a babe trying to nurse. A sadness passed over Athos to see his friend laid so low and by a man who had been trying to seek revenge on him for things done in a life he had tried his best to forget. Athos wondered if his past would ever truly stay buried or would it continue to rise up to not just haunt him but torment him through the pain it inflicted on those he loved. He could not keep doing this.

Athos felt a light touch at his knee and looked down to see Aramis’s hand laid gently on his leg. He looked up to find the marksman’s dark brown eyes full of worry and care and knew the touch to be one of comfort, not need. He put his own hand over Aramis’s and gave him a nod. “I will be alright,” Athos said softly, “So will you.” Aramis nodded then closed his eyes again, his jaw still moving against the water soaked towel.

“I have something that might work a little better,” D’Artagnan said, carrying a steaming cup from where he had been squatting near the fire, “Warmed milk and honey. The heat should help you and you need to eat.” He was rewarded by a small nod and a gentle moan that they all understood to be Aramis saying he was hungry.

D’Artagnan brought over another chair and sat beside Porthos at Aramis’s bedside. He held the cup and blew on it, “This is still a little to hot. Finish with that and then we’ll try this, ok?” Aramis nodded again, but they could all see his strength was fading. Exhaustion was claiming him again.

As Aramis drifted off to sleep, Athos slipped the damp cloth from his mouth and laid it aside then Porthos carefully lowered the marksman back to a prone position on the cot. D’Artagnan set the milk and honey aside, covering the top so it would stay warm. They gathered at Aramis’s bedside, saying nothing, but hearing each other perfectly as they waited for their fourth to wake up.


	3. In the Palm of My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Shot by An Arrow
> 
> Because it’s not fair just to beat up Aramis . . .

“Get...it...out,” D’Artagnan pushed the words through gritted teeth. 

“I will, I will,” Aramis reassured him, gripping tightly to D’Artagnan’s wrist and pressing it hard into the wall, “Just stay still. We have to do this carefully. Athos!” Aramis called over his shoulder. ‘

D’Artagnan grunted in pain, balling his left hand and slamming it into the wall behind him. His right leg ached and he knew he was wounded there too, but his left hand felt like it was on fire. His head was hanging to his chest as he leaned heavily against the wall taking gasping breaths trying to fight the agony. He forced his eyes open and swung his head slightly to the right to see it again. Yes, that was a crossbow bolt through his palm, impaling him to the wall. 

It was terrifying to see the bolt through his flesh, piercing the center of his palm like it was nothing more than a straw target. When he was first hit, he was so startled he had stood stock still against the wall, unable for a moment to even move. . D’Artagnan was frozen, momentarily mesmerized by the length of steel rod protruding from his flesh as his brain tried to figure out what had happened. He had never been in a battle with crossbows before, had never seen the damage those deadly weapons could do. And then fire bloomed in his palm and engulfed his hand and he let out an agonizing scream. He shifted to take up the bolt with his left hand and yank the demon-steel from his flesh but then Aramis was there, shoulder pressed into his chest, blocking his left hand from reaching his right and pushing him against the wall.

The marksman had circled his wrist with his hand and gripped it so tightly D’Artagnan could feel that pain too, inside the fiery burn of his aching hand. As he was jostled by the marksman, D’Artagnan realized there was a leg wound too as his right leg throbbed and and pulsed below him. He wanted to bend and see that too, but Aramis’s body pressed into his side prevented him from moving or from seeing what was happening to his leg.

“Athos!” Aramis called out again and D’Artagnan thought there was more urgency in his voice this time. D’Artagnan felt fear now with the pain. If Aramis was worried, this had to be really bad. It needed to be out. It had to be out now. Why didn’t he just do it? D’Artagnan got his left arm between himself and Aramis and tried to shove the marksman off of him.

“No! D’Artagnan, no!” Aramis shifted his position, getting one of his legs between D’Artagnan’s and leaning his full body weight into D’Artagnan’s chest. With only the leverage of his left hand, trying to move Aramis away was like trying to move the boulder from the very tomb of Christ himself. D’Artagnan called out in agony.

“Take it out!” he demanded, “For the love of God, Aramis!” D’Artagnan closed his eyes, slamming his head back against the wall. 

“You must stay still,” Aramis demanded again, “Or this will be beyond repair. Are you listening to me?” Aramis said with a small shove of his shoulder into D’Artagnan’s chest. The young swordsman grunted.

“Gods, Aramis! You as bad as the bolt,”he spat between gritted teeth.

“Just don’t pass out,” Aramis said sternly, “I can’t hold up your entire body weight in this position.”

“If you took it out, your won’t have to hold anything,” D’Artagnan argued. He’d strike a bargain with the devil himself if only that thing was out of his hand.

“Athos!” And Aramis’s voice now held a ring of command that D’Artagnan rarely heard coming from him, ‘Now, please.”

“You’re going to make Athos do it?” D’Artagnan squeaked out in a panic.

“Only if you want to be maimed for life,” Aramis chided him, “Someone needs to hold you down while I take this out. The pain is going to be quite intense.”

“It’s already intense!” D’Artagnan shouted as he tried even more ineffectually than last time to push Aramis off of him. The marksman didn’t budge. D’Artagnan banged his back against the wall again in frustration, eyes pressed closed as he groaned in pain. 

“Took you long enough,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan forced his eyes open to see Athos standing in front of them.

“There were three of them,” Athos said with a shrug as he sheathed his blades.

“Hold this please,” Aramis said politely but it was a demand, not a request. D’Artagnan wondered what he wanted Athos to do and then there was a quick shift in weight and pressure and D’Artagnan realized they had changed places. Athos now pressed up against him, an iron grip on his right wrist and his other hand shoving D’Artagnan’s shoulder against the wall. Athos tucked his right leg between D’Artagnan’s knees and pushed slightly, causing D’Artagnan to lean heavily on his uninjured leg. Not that he’d had much weight on the injured one to begin with but off-balance and chest to chest with Athos, D’Artagnan was even more immobilized than he had been with Aramis.

He felt something bump against his wounded hand and he howled. He could have used some kind words from Aramis but the marksman seemed intent on just causing him more agony. 

“Just stop, please!” D’Artagnan begged.

“I thought you wanted it out,” Aramis snapped back, but the added misery stopped only to be replaced a moment later with blossoming of pain in his thigh. D’Artagnan let out an anguished cry rolling his head against the wall.

“Why is he trying to kill me?” D’Artagnan nearly whimpered.

“He’s saving your life,” Athos’s hold on him was like steel clamped over his limbs but the swordsman's voice was reassuring, “Try to stay calm.”

“Easy for you to say,” D’Artagnan said between clenched teeth, “You’re not shot up like a turkey on the King’s hunt.”

“You are in a bit of a foul situation,” Athos said, deadpan as ever. D’Artagnan opened his eyes and blinked owlishly at the swordsman. Athos’s expression had not changed but his blue-grey eyes had a twinkle. He was fully aware of the terrible pun he had just made. Despite himself, D’Artagnan’s lips twitched up in a smile even as he panted through the pain coursing in his limbs.

“Hold him still,” Aramis said from below them. He was still working at the wound on D’Artagnan’s thigh. He felt something around his upper leg and then it began to tighten, causing a new agony to flare in his leg even as the fire in his palm began to pulse in time with his heartbeats.

“What are you doing,” D’Artagnan had little breath left with which to speak as the agony began to take hold of his body.

“A tourniquet,” The marksman explained, “This will stop the bleeding on the sword wound until we can get you unpinned from the wall.”  
“Just pull the thing out already, please Aramis,” D’Artagnan begged.

The pressure around his thigh was becoming nearly as unbearable as all the rest of the pain in his tortured body. He was sweating now with the strain of trying to stay still through all of the pain and felt the fatigue that was starting to claim his muscles. Suddenly he was grateful for Athos’s strength and the swordsman’s unflagging grip.

Aramis came into his line of vision, reaching over Athos’s shoulder to grip D’Artagnan’s neck. “The thigh wound can kill you, it must be dealt with first. The one in your hand, that is causing you much pain but no risk to your life,” D’Artagnan nodded his understanding, “But if I do not not remove the bolt carefully, or if you pull further on it, you could be maimed for life. You must stay still, alright?” Aramis’s eyes were full of worry but also love, Despite his agony, it was impossible to deny him. D’Artagnan nodded his understanding and appreciated the warm smile the marksman had to offer. Then he disappeared from his line of sight. Athos gave the Gascon’s should a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t let his dramatics get to you,” he said softly, “Aramis will not let you die.”

“Porthos, the wine please,” Aramis gave the big man a cheerful command. Porthos appeared on the other side of Aramis, a big grin on his face. D’Artagnan looked at him in confusion, wondering why he seemed so happy. The brawler gave him a friendly wink, which D’Artagnan decided to interpret as an attempt to be reassuring. 

“This will need to be slow and he might not be able to take the pain,” D’Artagnan did not like the sound of that. Porthos grunted in acknowledgement. It was no secret the big man did not like blood but yet he was probably standing in a pool of it now to help D’Artagnan. The young swordsman wanted to weep in gratitude. 

“Now gently, grip here and here. Try not to jostle the bolt,” D’Artagnan moaned as Porthos followed the instructions and pressed his wrist and thumb to the wall. Despite the attempt to be gentle, the slight shift of the bolt sent tendrils of pain throughout his hand. His legs started to tremble, the muscles exhausted.

“Can you wiggle your fingers?” Aramis asked.

“You told me not to move it,” D’Artagnan huffed out.

“I need to know if there has already been damage before I shift this further,” Aramis said, “Gently now, just let me see.” D’Artagnan rotated his head toward his injured hand and pushed his eyes open. Seeing the bolt in his palm immediately made the throbbing wound even more intense. But he had to know now if indeed he had lost the use of his fingers. With a deep grunt to the effort D’Artagnan curled his fingers downward. He watched the digits shift long enough to know that they could move and then squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to look further at the horror that was his ruined hand.

“That’s good, that’s very good,” Aramis reassured him, “If I can pull straight, there should be no lasting damage.” Aramis reached over and patted the young swordsman’s cheek, his voice soothing, “Alright, D’Artagnan, I’m going to pull the bolt,” Aramis explained, “Then douse it with wine, then bandage you quickly.” D’Artagnan nodded into Aramis’s palm, afraid to speak for whatever pitiful sound would come out of his mouth. “Stay as still as you can now, if you pull on that hand you might lose the use of it, ” Aramis ordered as he released his hand from D’Artagnan’s face. He immediately missed the comforting warmth. Athos shifted his grip on D’Artagnan, pressing his full body against his young friend knowing what was to come next.

“A nice clean, straight pull. LIke a smooth draw on a bowstring. And, go...,” and then D’Artagnan felt a rending, tearing, slicing pain that seemed to go on forever. His thigh muscles clenched and his body went rigid as if it refused to give up the bolt. The process of taking it out was far more painful than it having gone in. He couldn’t help it, D’Artagnan screamed.

Then it was out, replaced with a deep, agonizing feeling of burning that made D’Artagnan wonder if his flesh was truly scorched. He tried to push himself forward, to wriggle out of Athos’s hold, but the swordsman was unrelenting as D’Artagnan pushed against him. As quickly as it had begun the burning receded and panting in pain and exhaustion, D’Artagnan let his head fall forward onto Athos’s shoulder. His vision grayed and his head swam and perhaps he did pass out for he came back to his senses with Athos murmuring low words of comfort, his right arm snugged up under D’Artagnan’s arm and around his back, pressing him to his chest. D’Artagnan could barely stand but Athos held him tightly, not letting him fall as his right hand was still pressed to the wall.

“...take this,” Aramis was speaking, “And now the bandage.”

“Yer not gonna sew it?” Porthos asked softly.

“Not yet,” Aramis said he pressed something soft into D’Artagnan’s palm, “This will take time and good lighting or the scars that set will impede the motion. Hold him still, I have to do the back,” D’Artagnan felt his hand shift and then another wave of burning pain streaked over his hand. He was coherent enough to recognize the feeling as the burn of alcohol in a wound, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

“Constance . . .” D’Artagnan whimpered, he couldn’t help it. He tried to keep the tears brewing in his eyes from falling, squeezing them tight, but still he felt the dampness on his cheek and embarrassingly realized he was weeping into Athos’s shoulder.

“There, almost done,” Aramis cooed beside him, “Just the bandage now.” 

D’Artagnan’s arm was finally shifted and he felt the strips of linen gently wrapping over and around his hand. Something soft, cotton wadding perhaps, had been pressed to the palm and back of his hand and the snug of the bandage actually felt reassuring, like he might hold together after all. The bandaging finally done, Aramis gently laid D’Artagnan’s hand on Athos’s shoulder. The swordsman slipped his other arm up behind D’Artagnan’s back and the young musketeer all but fell into his Lieutenant’s embrace.

“Well that’s cozy,” Aramis gently mocked.

“Aramis,” the singular word held all the warning Athos needed.

“Ah, right,” Aramis said, all back to business, “Can you get him by the fire? We need to see to that leg before he can ride.”

“Can you stand?” Athos asked as he gently rocked D’Artagnan back onto his feet. D’Artagnan felt soft and unsteady but locked his knees and managed to take his own weight again. Athos shifted beside him, the injured hand still over his shoulder, but then gripped his waist with his other hand. “Just a few steps to the fire,” he said and he helped the Gascon, wobbly as a new colt, move to the bench by the fire.

“I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan said sheepishly as Athos eased him to sit on the floor and slid off his cloak. Athos paused and looked at him confusion in his steel blue eyes.

“I . . . Back there . . .” D’Artagnan trailed off, unable to name his share as a hot blush overtook his face. 

“Oh, I see,” Athos said with understanding. “You are not the first man to weep in my arms because of an injury,” the swordsman said as he rolled his cloak into a tidy packet and placed it carefully under the knee of D’Artagnan’s injured leg. “Nor the first to call out for his mother or his lover,” Athos said, his steady tone making it sound common place.

“We are all the comfort we have sometimes,” Athos explained, “And if it helps you to swoon in my arms to bear the pain, I will offer you my body again and again. That is what soldiers do.”

“I swooned?” D’Artagnan said weakly.

“Yes, and it was quite lovely,” Aramis said, kneeling down to poke at D’Artagnan’s leg.

“Aramis, stop!” D’Artagnan said, but against the pain he was inflicting or the teasing no one was sure.

“Never,” Aramis smiled and he upended the bottle of wine over the bleeding sword cut. D’Artagnan howled before swooning prettily into Porthos’s waiting arms. 

“At least he’s predictable,” Athos said wearily, but Aramis did not miss the fond gaze that lingered on Athos’s face as they knelt together to knit their youngest brother back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to these little fics has been a bit overwhelming, but so glad you are enjoying them. Leave a comment if you can, it really makes my day!


	4. Not Another Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Caught in a storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No apologies for the well-worn path I am about to walk us all down LOL
> 
> Just a snippet of a conversation that I always thought must have happened at some point, maybe more than once.

_“Aramis,” the call was breathless and dull, the sound almost lost in the crunch of snow beneath his horse’s hooves, the unrelenting rush of the wind, D’Artagnan’s rasping breaths. Aramis tightened his grip on the Gascon, barely conscious in his arms, and urged his horse forward._

_“Aramis,” the word came again, more insistent, more forceful. He ignored the echo of his name through the trees, the muffled words forming under the wind. He rode on through swirling snow._

_“Aramis,” it wasn’t an order, it was a plea._

_Drawing in a ragged breath, Aramis stopped his horse. Defeated, he dropped his head toward his chest, his hat blocking the snow from his face and to some degree from D’Artagnan’s as well. He shifted his arm around the young swordsman, pulling him more center and tugging up the blue cloak that had fallen from over his chest. He listened for his name again but heard only wind and perhaps the faint jingle of the horse’s tack from a rider behind him. Aramis closed his eyes, sorting out the sounds, the whispers from the wind._

Athos pulled up his mount alongside the marksman, silently helping with the cloak and brushing the accumulating snow from D’Artagnan’s hair. Aramis watched him, uncertainty blooming in his eyes.

“How is he?” Athos asked but he shifted his hand from D’Artagnan’s head to grip the marksman solidly by the wrist where Aramis clutched the young swordsman to his chest.

“The same,” Aramis still did not look at him, “He is weak, the wound is deep. We have to get him out of these woods…” Aramis’s voice trailed off as he lifted his head, eyes darting furtively around looking for something that Athos hoped he wouldn’t see.

“We need shelter,” Athos said, “And a fire. We may have lost the road, we will not last another hour.” He felt the cold deep in his bones. They were losing the battle against the storm.

“We need to leave these woods,” Aramis’s eyes were distant, but his voice determined.

“We need to make camp, start a fire…” Athos repeated the argument from earlier.

“No!” Aramis snapped his head back to Athos, his brown eyes wide, his gaze a mix of fear and determination. Athos had not seen this in a long time. The cold was getting to both of them. He felt his own despair creeping in the pit of his stomach. Heard a woman calling to him from a field of forget-me-nots . . . 

“Aramis,” Athos put his hand to the marksman’s shoulder, squeezing as tightly as his cold hands could grip as he pushed through the fog settling in his own mind, “We are stopping. You need to help me find a place to shelter. I need your help.”

Aramis looked as if he wanted to speak, but instead squeezed his eyes shut and gave a small shake of his head. Something was warring in his mind, Aramis was fighting the demons that resided there. His distress was heartbreaking but it only made Athos more determined. He gave the marksman a small shake.

“Tell me,” Athos commanded, but it was a gentle order born of compassion not frustration. Because of course Athos already knew the answer. Aramis sighed deeply, almost a cry, and let his eyes find Athos’s again. The despair there brought back too many memories for Athos but he steadfastedly held the marksman’s gaze.

“Not another one,” Aramis said softly, “I cannot lose another brother to the snow.”

“He will not die here, Aramis, I promise you,” Athos spoke the words with the sharpness of a sword cut.

“You cannot know that,” Aramis looked tired, weary from the ride, from the thoughts in his head. He was on the edge as Athos was. The cold was killing them slowly.

“We will not let him,” Athos said, emphasizing the first word, “You and I are stronger than this storm, stronger than his wound, stronger than your memories.”

“Twenty died then,” Aramis said, forlorn.

“You were alone,” Athos said fiercely, “You are not alone now.”

“I am not alone,” Aramis repeated the phrase almost by rote, moving the words around uncertainly. He took in a shuddering breath and forced himself to straighten slightly in the saddle. Aramis moved his right hand to cover Athos’s where it lay on his shoulder. “I’m not,” he whispered with a reassuring press of his hand. Athos saw gratitude, deep unapologetic gratitude in his friend’s eyes. He also saw Aramis again, not the ghosts that sometimes claimed him. The marksman broke his gaze and again searched for something in the forest. 

“Over to the right,” Aramis said with a nod of his head, “That mound in the snow, that might be a place to shelter. There are rock formations all through these woods and that might be a fallen tree. Or wait, it’s flat at the top . . . A hunters’ shelter maybe. That would be luck.”

Athos squinted toward where the marksman was indicating but his eyes were not as sharp and he found nothing but blinding snow.

“Are you certain?” Athos asked, “I cannot see as well as you.”

“No, my friend, you see most clearly,” Aramis gave him a warm smile, “Let’s get out of this storm.”


	5. The Third Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are few things more beautiful than Athos — tortured, desolate and alone.
> 
> Prompt: Locked up and left behind

He hadn’t been worried in the slightest the first time they were there. He had still been on the upper floors then, tied to a chair in the former Lord’s antechamber, a rag stuffed in his mouth a blade at his throat. He heard their horses thunder into the courtyard, the shout of welcome from Du Guare, the chamberlain, the rise of Aramis’s voice but words he could not quite make out. There was some laughter and in minutes they were gone again, sent away to Chambord, the nearest town, having been told that Athos had never arrived. They would wait, as they had arranged, not suspecting that the Lord of the Manor and his family were imprisoned in their own dungeon, that Athos indeed had arrived with letters from the King and had stumbled upon the Chamberlain and those loyal to him digging a mass grave in cherry orchard for those who had opposed him.

Athos had expected them to return the second time. Expected they would figure out that the Lord was missing, the Chamberlain lying, that things were not as they appeared. They turned up two days after their first visit, having had time to piece together the plot, be suspicious of the story, worry for Athos’s absence. They searched the house. By then, Athos was in the cellars, hands and feet bound with rough hemp rope, a bloody rag in his mouth, a hood over his head. But he could hear them, hear the heavy footfalls of Porthos, the rumble of his voice as he walked on the floorboards above him. They were so close, they would find the cellar and find him, only a little worse for wear at the rough treatment shown him by Du Guare. Aramis would see to his arm which he thought might be broken, the swelling in his face would recede, the bruising fade. D’Artagnan would bring him stew and soup from M. Bonacieux and Porthos would indulge him despite Aramis’s admonishments and they would get drunk at night in his rooms until his wounds healed and he was fit enough to join them for guard duty. But Porthos didn’t find him. Du Guare had slaughtered the household staff who had turned against him and accused La Monde, the infamous bandit, of having murdered their Lord and his family, plundering the manor, and dragging off Athos as his captive. He was heading south, toward the Spanish border, and the Musketeers raced off toward difficult and dangerous mountain terrain to chase a ghost. Du Guare had bragged of his triumph to Athos as he was stringing him up on one of the meat hooks in the cellar. There was no longer a need for restraint on his part.

By the third visit, hope and despair warred in Athos’s heart. Du Guare was clearly mad. The tortures he had inflicted on Athos were for nothing but his own insane pleasure. His body was covered in abrasions, cuts and burns. He had been deprived of food and given only enough water to keep him alive. He had been left hanging on the meat hook for at least two days, beaten at the pleasure of Du Guare or his men. Salt and worse was rubbed in his wounds as he squirmed in agony like a fish on the line. He could not open his right eye for the swelling. His left arm was definitely broken, the agony of it the only thing tethering him to consciousness for the better part of the time. When even that was not enough to rouse him, when he was almost senseless, he had been stripped and bound and thrown in with the hogs, wallowing in the mud and piss along with the beasts, rolling in on himself to avoid being trampled, yet huddling against them for warmth when the cold night descended. He realized they were all but alone in the manor, a small handful of men with Du Guare’s cruel sensibilities remained, waiting to see what debasement would be next for the mighty musketeer. They plundered the house of its goods. When they heard of the musketeers unexpected return to Chambord they prepared. And when the musketeers inevitably turned up in the courtyard again they laid torch to the manor house, with Athos, naked and covered in the filth of the hogs and tied like a pig himself, in the same wine cellar that Porthos had failed to find before. 

That the floor did not burn or cave in on him Athos at first thought was a miracle, but as time passed and the flames died and the smoke receded Athos came to see it as the last gift of the devil himself. He had shouted that night because they had left him without a gag but Du Guare had been efficient in his hiding spot nonetheless. Athos knew they were there, desperate to find him, but his calls were weak and he choked on smoke and dirt. With the roar of the flames, the crash of falling timber as the roof came down, they heard nothing. Being below ground saved Athos from the smoke claiming him but he had shouted until his throat was as raw as his body, strained against ropes that cut brutally into his wrists and ankles, and eventually whimpered quietly on the stone floor no moisture left in his body for tears to even fall. The night was long but the sunlight of morning was the thing that drove him into true despair. That he should be forced to see another sunrise, live another day, knowing that he would die here naked, bound and discarded was the cruelest gesture yet in a life already destroyed by a merciless God.

The sunlight pierced the cracks in the flooring above him, sending blades of light to penetrate what had been a dark and harrowing pit. It was just a cellar now, dirty and broken as he was, but nothing terrifying or threatening remained. He lay on his side, hogtied, unable to struggle any longer against the ropes. His arms and hands were numb, no more pain from the broken bones to remind him he still lived. His own harsh breathing sounded like a roar in his ears, yet with dawn and the sunlight came the sound of birdsong somewhere distant above him. He hoped he’d die before the next night and felt immediately a surge of guilt and shame at the thought.

He didn’t want to die here like this. He remembered wanting to die at the bottom of a case of wine, to hurl himself drunk and weeping into the Seine. That Porthos and Aramis wouldn’t let him was still a wonder to him. Porthos physically restraining him, strong arms that eventually stopped holding him captive and became a place of protection. He could never ask for the man’s embrace, but at some point Porthos knew that Athos’s self-destructive behaviors were a design to lead to him knocking him on his ass and then holding him, pinned, until all the fight drained from Athos’s body. Spent, Athos could truly muster no resistance to the comfort of Porthos manhandling him back to his rooms and putting him to bed with the same love and care he himself had shown Thomas when he was troubled, or sick, or drunk. Athos could not say to anyone how much he craved a kind touch, but Porthos didn’t have to hear it spoken to know.

Aramis tended his body but tethered his spirit. The man had infinite patience - facing hurled wine bottles and cruel curses to ease Athos’s hurts and stitch him back together. But it was in Aramis’s soul where he found respite from his own damnation. Aramis could be as black as Athos some nights, distraught beyond comfort and restless at his own despair, yet Aramis found redemption where Athos found only desolation. He was warmth were Athos was ice and the swordsman had found himself craving the the peace that Aramis seemed to generate even as much as he craved the chaos of Aramis’s many misadventures. Athos needed to fight in order to heal and with Aramis and Porthos, he found plenty of opportunity to hurl himself into life.

And he could no longer deny that D’Artagnan woke something in his heart - something he thought he had buried in Thomas’s grave. The need to love, to care and to nurture. He had surprised Treville when he asked to take him on as his protege and sponsor, but not Porthos and Aramis. They had seen it already. The boy’s great heart, his passion for life, his belief in love. But they had seen the despair of his father’s death, had sat together the three of them talking about how if they could have been spared the pains of their own lives would things have been different. Did they not have an obligation to save D’Artagnan where none of them had been able to save themselves? Finally in D’Artagnan, Athos found something more than himself and a place where his better nature could thrive if it would not take root in his own heart.

So to die here now, helpless, humiliated and alone, after long ago swearing together to lay down their lives only to each other, and to France, twisted like a knife in Athos’s heart. He had failed at everything. Even his promise to them, the only and final thing that mattered to him. Three times they had come for him and he knew well there would not be a fourth. Not for him. Not this time.

He watched the streaks of sunlight shift across the cellar floor as the day wore on. A space that would have never seen the touch of the sun were it not for the total destruction of the building around it. Athos thought about that as he drifted aimlessly in the corridors of his mind. Some things should stay buried and dark but circumstances dragged them from their hiding places and there was no more running when you were naked and bound and waiting for the last night to fall. 

He loved Anne. He would die loving Anne and hate himself for it until his last breath because he had loved Thomas too. He heard her laughing beneath the hanging tree. Saw Thomas, wide-eyed and still, the mask of his death upon him. He longed to weep but his parched throat reminded him he had had no water. 

Time passed and he heard Treville’s gruff yells, remembered he was not to come to duty drunk again or damned if he was the best swordsman in the regiment there would be no place for him in the Musketeers. It was the last place he had. He wondered now if he should have stayed.

Later, as darkness was starting to again overtake the cellar, as the sunlight weakened and he heard the rats scurrying around him, he heard them. Calling him. Always calling him. They were unrelenting sometimes. Didn’t they know he was already dead? 

Above him there was a shudder and a thump, perhaps the floor above was finally about to give way. He might not have to face the night after all. Maybe this was the mercy he had so craved from a God who had abandoned him. And he could hear them again. The three voices that had become his only comfort in life would ease him to his death. Arguing about something. He almost laughed. Of course they would be. 

He couldn’t understand them clearly, couldn’t find his own words to answer them, but thank you God, because he would not die alone in this pit with only Anne and Thomas for company. Somehow, they were here too. A great creaking and cracking sound overtook the cellar, and light poured in as the ceiling gave way, dust and debris raining down on him. He forced his eyes to look up, thinking to see the last of the dying sun before the world came down around him. But something blocked the view and a shadow began to descend, blocking out the last of the light.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the coming of his own death but hoping desperately it would be swift now that he had suffered so. The muscles and limbs that had gone numb now ached with a fire that only death would quench. Or perhaps it was his soul already burning in Hell. He drew in a ragged and shuddering breath and held tight in his mind the image of four swords crossed, sun shining off the blades. He waited.

There was the touch of a glove upon his face.

A whisper . . . 

“Mon cher, we are here now.”

And Athos’s heart shattered like stained glass and the last thought he had in that cellar was that the third time had not been the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were left feeling uncertain about the ending - I don’t write death fics :)


	6. This Time, It's Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I spent my holidays in far too warm Tennessee with no white Christmas, dreaming of a snowy forest on a wintery night. Of course, when you add in Musketeers it's the gift that keeps on giving - so here's a little tender and wintery comfort to start your year off right. I failed miserably at the being short part . . . but it does fill one of my h/c bingo prompts so I included it here.
> 
> Prompt: Frostbite  
> Connected to: Not Another Brother

It took them another hour to find shelter in the snowy woods. Their horses pushed through drifts and picked their way around fallen branches encased in a coating of ice. It was rough going with D’Artagnan all but senseless, the only thing keeping him mounted was being seated before Aramis, the marksman’s strong hold unfaltering despite the cold and snow. 

Athos had tried to take point, but his eyes were not as sharp as Aramis’s and after he lead them from the path a second time, they were forced to switch places again. Athos kept his horse close behind Aramis’s, grateful that the beast and her riders blocked some of the wind and snow. Nonetheless, they were all covered in snow and ice, hair and beards frosted white in the extreme weather.

Hopelessly lost as the setting sun stole their one clue as to their direction of travel, they stumbled upon the remains of what must have been a small hunting lodge for some minor noble in the area. It was far from sizable and much of it was in decay, but it looked to have an intact roof over the main room even if most of the rest of the small building looked like little more than a pile of rubble. 

They lead the horses directly to the front doors. One hung miserably by just one hinge and leaned heavily against the other forming a barricade to their entrance. Athos made a slow and sluggish dismount from his horse, his limbs stiff with cold, and trudged through the knee-deep drifts to put a shoulder to the door. It refused to budge. He shuffled back to Aramis and pulled his scarf from over his mouth. The cold wind stung like needles on his newly exposed flesh. Everything else that had seen the elements was already numb with exposure.

“I’ll go around, try to find a way in,” he shouted up to Aramis past the howl of the wind. The marksman nodded his agreement, blinking snow and ice from his lashes to shoot Athos a look that warned him both to be careful and to hurry up. They would not take their fallen comrade off that horse unless they knew for certain they were sheltering here. The two of them did not have the strength left to get him back up should this place prove unusable. But they could not ride for much longer. 

With great effort, Athos pushed through the snow, circling to the side of the abandoned house. At the apex of a hip-high drift, he found what he needed, a gaping hole where a paned glass window had probably sat. The glass had long since been pilfered or broken, but the tall opening would be easy enough for a man to get through. It opened to a dark void but in these circumstances, it was a welcome sight. Athos made his way to the sil and with more effort than should have been necessary pushed himself up and in through the window.

The interior was dark to Athos’s snow-blind eyes and he paused with the window at his back as his eyes adjusted. He welcomed the relief from the wind, the gusts that came through the window bearable over the constant barrage they were subjected to outside. 

As his vision adjusted Athos could see he was in the great room of the lodge. It was mostly empty, save some discarded and broken furniture and what looked like a pile of rolled rugs stacked along the wall next to the fireplace. Those would come in handy to insulate them from the cold floor and perhaps block any other open windows. Athos made his way carefully through the room to the broken front door. 

“Stand back!” he called through the gap between the doors then leaned into the broken door and pushed with all his might. It gave a groan and bit of resistance and then the hinge popped and the door fell forward, landing in the snow with a soft but tremendous thud. Aramis blinked owlishly at him from his seat behind D’Artagnan.

“Let’s get him down!” Athos shouted over the wind, the fallen door making an effective pathway over the drifting snow. Aramis directed his horse forward to meet Athos at the edge. He gave his mount a gentle kick and a tug of the rein and she sidestepped giving her left side to Athos. The swordsman reached up as Aramis lowered the unconscious Gascon into his arms. Athos got a good grip under D’Artagnan’s shoulders and then pulled, essentially dragging the boy from the saddle, with Aramis helping to lift his right leg over the pommel and then ease his feet down until Athos could shift his grip and prevent a fall. There was nothing graceful about any of it.

“Can you get him inside?” Aramis’s voice was muffled by his blue sash snaking protectively around his face, “I’ll get the horses.” Athos gave a grunt that he assumed Aramis would take as agreement and hoisted D’Artagnan over his shoulder. His knees all but buckled in his weakened condition but he held steady and maneuvered them both through the open door. He made his way to the fireplace and as carefully as he could lowered D’Artagnan to the floor, propping his back up against the rugs. He caught the young swordsman’s head before it could drop and eased it back gently to rest on the carpet behind him. Still bracing D’Artagnan’s head, Athos used his teeth to pull off one glove and pushed D’Artagnan’s hair from his face. His skin was ice cold. As carefully as his numbed and clumsy fingers could, Athos probed gently at the boy’s scalp, looking for any sign that the wonld was still bleeding. D’Artagnan gave an uncomfortable moan and tried to roll his head away from Athos’s determined fingers.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said, hoping he might rouse the boy, “D’Artagnan,” he called again, shifting his hand to tap lightly at the young swordsman’s cheek. He was met with another moan and more shifting, but the boy didn’t seem fully aware. 

“Just rest here,” Athos said although he doubted that D’Artagnan was coherent enough to understand him. Athos stood and pulled one of the carpets from the pile. It came away with a few tugs and he maneuvered it before the fireplace and kicked it open. Despite the musty smell and moth holes, it seemed mostly intact and had not become the home for anything other than a few mice that scurried away when he had disturbed the pile. It would serve to keep the cold from the stone floor from further seeping into their bones.

The next order of business was a fire. While being out of the wind was a relief the cold was deep and penetrating and if they didn’t all get warmed up they risked freezing to death as night settled in around them. For the first time in this miserable day, it looked as if their luck was turning as there was snow at the bottom of the fireplace covering the andirons and what were probably some charred logs. If there was snow, then the chimney was clear, or at least clear enough for their purposes this night. To be sure, Athos squatted down and leaned in, looking up to see the last of the light fading from the sky. This old house would save them.

Athos used his gloved hand to scoop most of the snow out of the fireplace and then took up a broken chair from the floor. With a few stomps, he splintered it into small enough pieces to cram into the fireplace as Aramis lead the horses in through the door. The beasts were uneasy in the strange dark place, but Aramis shushed them as he led them to the other side of the fireplace. Sheltering with the horses would provide more warmth in the room and the beasts needed to recover from their snowy trek as badly as their riders did.

Sparking flint to lay flame to the fire was difficult as Athos’s hands refused to cooperate. It took more tries than it should have but in a short while, Athos managed to coax a fire from the remnants of fringe on the chair. With the rotting fabric to help it along, it did not take much for the wood of the chair to catch. It would burn relatively quickly but there were enough broken bits of furniture to last long enough for them to warm up before searching for heartier stuff to burn that would get them through the night. Athos took a moment to let his cold hands linger over the fire. It was a painful but welcome burn as the heat breathed life into his frigid digits. As soon as he was a little bit more functional he’d help Aramis who was already crouched beside D’Artagnan, probably assessing the head wound and trying to wake him.

Standing before the growing fire Athos began to strip himself of his wet clothes. He knew well the dangers of cold and exposure as he, Aramis and Porthos had faced some cold and desperate nights on campaign together in the early days of the Musketeers. Athos unwound his scarf and draped it to hang on a hook by the fire then swung off his cloak, heavy with snow and shook it out before draping it over another broken chair. His wet leathers would have to come off too but not until he’d found more firewood and plugged some of the holes that were letting in the cold and snow. 

“Athos,” Aramis’s voice soundly softly behind him. Athos turned and froze, breath catching in his throat at the sight of the marksman. Aramis stood beside D’Artagnan, close enough for the ruddy glow of the firelight to reveal his eyes wide and terrified. His hands were clasped closely to his chest and his stance was stiff and taut. Behind him, D’Artagnan lay sprawled motionless against the rolled rugs, still as stone . . . or as death. Athos felt as if a band was tightening around his chest. It couldn’t be. The head wound did not seem that severe, they had gotten him out of the cold . . . 

“D’Artagnan?” Athos said, his voice cracking on the name. It was too much to consider, too much to say.

“No, no mon ami,” Aramis answered, distress clouding his face, “The boy is fine. I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you. This time, it’s me I’m afraid.” Aramis said with an uncomfortable laugh, an apologetic smile trying to tug at his lips.

“You?” Athos felt relief as well as confusion was over him, “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said, voice thick with emotion, “but I think I need your assistance.” 

Aramis stretched out his hands toward Athos, the left one cradled in the right. Uncertain, Athos captured the marksman’s hands in his own. They were ice cold and stiff, the fingers bent like claws, and even in the warmth of the firelight, the hands looked pale as they lay in Athos’s own. Athos glanced up at Aramis a question in his eyes. 

“Frostbite,” Aramis managed to say. Frostbite could cause permanent damage to a man’s limbs, you could lose a foot if it went deep, or your life if left untreated for too long — the dead appendage would turn gangrene if not removed. Toes and fingers were the most susceptible. They both knew soldiers who had lost fingers and hands to frostbite. Athos felt his heart thump, echoing the fear in Aramis’s eyes.

“Come,” Athos said gruffly, taking Aramis by the wrist and pulling him closer to the fire where the light was better. He knelt before the flames, still holding Aramis’s wrist and with a little wave gestured for the marksman to do the same. Aramis sank slowly to his knees, kneeling as one might before the executioner’s block, not in front of a friend who sought only to provide aid and comfort. 

Athos looked at the left hand first, raising it up to get a better look at front and back. He carefully manipulated Aramis’s fingers open. The hand in his was cold, the skin extremely pale. His middle three fingers were blackened at the fingertips, a blue tinge taking over below. As Athos moved each finger, he glanced up to see if he was causing Aramis any distress, but the marksman’s face revealed nothing beyond the fear in his eyes. 

“Does this hurt at all?” Athos finally asked.

“I can’t feel anything,” Aramis replied, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Let me see the other,” Athos said. Aramis complied pulling his left hand back toward his chest and presenting the right one to Athos. The condition was the same, cold, waxy skin and no feeling in the fingers or hands. Black spots were forming on the fingertips. Aramis and Athos both knew the blackness would continue to rise, even as his hands warmed. If it did not eventually disappear and the feeling did not come back, the flesh was dead and would have to be removed. Athos understood the fear in Aramis’s eyes all too well. A swordsman might manage a new grip missing a finger, but a marksman? He needed agile and dexterous hands to load and fire a weapon, and he needed all of his fingers. 

“We need to warm you up,” Athos said, cupping Aramis’s cold right hand between his own. His own flesh was still cold, and Athos felt the burn and sting even as his hands slowly warmed. Despite the fire, it was still terribly cold and they all risked more than frostbite if the could not stay warm. Aramis shook his head.

“You need to check D’Artagnan. Hands and feet both,” Aramis said, “And yourself. Can you feel your feet?” Aramis’s tone had shifted, his voice strong and insistent, no sign of the earlier panic. Although Athos could still see his wide eyes, the fight he was having with himself to stay calm evident in their bright gaze.

“My feet are fine. I will look at the boy, and myself too, but let’s see to you first,” Athos said, releasing Aramis’s hand and gesturing for him to shift position so Athos could get his boots off.

“You must treat it right away,” Aramis said, not moving his position, “The flesh has to be warmed slowly and very carefully as you will not feel any pain if the flesh is too close to the fire or to a heated stone that is too hot. And the area must stay warm once you begin to treat it, so you must be prepared. Warm water rather than hot, heated stones, strips of cloth. The pain can be intense as the flesh warms . . .” Aramis’s litany of instructions died on his lips as Athos finally captured his eyes with a placid but determined gaze. The marksman wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“If you are quite finished,” Athos said calmly, “Your boots,” and Athos gestured again for the marksman to sit back.

“But D’Artagnan —“ Athos cut Aramis off.

“Will be fine,” Athos was unrelenting, “Your boots,” Aramis looked as if he were about to protest again but Athos reached out a hand and laid it on the marksman’s wrist, “You asked for help. Please let me give it to you.” Aramis sighed, closing his eyes and giving a small nod, the fight draining from him instantly. Athos knew it was fear making Aramis so combative but Athos’s stoicism was not to be outmatched. He was frightened for the marksman too. 

Shifting his hand to Aramis’s shoulder, he encouraged the musketeer to lean back to a seated position then took up one of Aramis’s feet and with a few big tugs got the wet leather boot off of his leg. He undid the button at the bottom of his breeches and slipped his hands up along Aramis’s leg to roll down the wool stocking. The stocking thank goodness was dry. He peeled it away from Aramis’s foot and laid it out by the fire.

“Can you move your toes?” Athos asked as he held the marksman’s foot up by the heel. Aramis still had his eyes closed, as if afraid to see the condition of his foot. Athos placed his other hand over the top of Aramis’s foot, the limb cold between his now warming hands. “It doesn’t look bad,” Athos reassured him, “Can you feel my hands?”

“Yes,” Aramis answered with a nod and wriggled his toes for good measure.

“The other,” Athos said, letting that small piece of good news motivate him to continue. He repeated the process with Aramis’s other foot, leaving the marksman with his feet stretched out before him, stockings warming by the fire. It was only his hands that were of concern, but grave concern they were. Aramis had his hands before his mouth, breathing across his fingers.

“Is that helping?” Athos asked.

“I don’t know,” Aramis said, “I can feel nothing. Not even the kiss of my own breath,” the marksman gave a mighty shiver before drawing up his legs and continuing to blow on his fingers. Aramis’s wet leathers would need to come off - all of theirs would - but for now, Athos had to prioritize. He scooped up his damp wool cloak and dropped it over Aramis’s bent knees, covering his legs and tucking the edge under Aramis’s feet. Better that than nothing for now. 

“Keep doing that,” Athos said, “even if you cannot feel it. It will help until I can find something better.” Aramis nodded and resumed, staring off into the fire as he shivered miserably on the floor. Athos sighed softly and ran a hand over his face. He could really use another pair of hands right now and wished not for the first time during this mission that Porthos had been sent with them. Then again no one could have expected the delivery of a packet of letters to have gone so wrong.

Athos took their camp cups from their horses, plus a small pan that D’Artagnan carried that they used for cooking and filled them with snow from outside the door. Just the moment outdoors to scoop the snow remained Athos that cold as it was, they were far better off than they had been outside. The temperature was dropping rapidly now that the weak winter sun had set.

Athos set the cups and pan by the fire to melt the snow then took up Aramis’s wool stockings. He sat beside Aramis and reached for his left hand. The marksman let it go with no protest but looked at him curiously as Athos laid his arm across his lap and then rolled up the stocking. Carefully Athos slipped Aramis’s bent fingers into the opening then pulled the stocking over his hand and down his wrist. They were long, so Athos folded back the tube of extra material and pulled it up over Aramis’s hand. Aramis looked at Athos’s makeshift hand warmer and gave a little chuckle before handing over his other arm into Athos’s care. Pleased that his approach was acceptable, Athos repeated the process with the second stocking. 

“How is that?” Athos asked, hopeful that the warm wool would start to give Aramis some relief.

“It’s a good idea,” Aramis tried to muster a smile.

“Stand up,” Athos ordered as he pushed himself up from the floor, “Your leathers have to come off.” Aramis didn’t argue, they both knew the dangers of wet clothes in cold temperatures. 

Athos put a hand around Aramis’s arm and helped him from the floor, the dark blue musketeer cloak puddling at Aramis’s feet. Aramis’s head was bowed, his arms instinctively tucked closely to his chest again, the useless stumps of his wrapped hands a portent of an unthinkable future should the frostbite prove to be too severe to cure. Athos felt fear flutter again in his chest. Fear was not an emotion he encountered often, nor one he often saw in Aramis or Porthos. Worry or concern, of course. But whatever fear they might have was usually stuffed behind their courage, their bravado, and their determination. When death appeared at their door, they drew their swords and met it head-on.

Aramis was not likely to die from frostbite, they had shelter now, a fire and a means to arrest its progression. But while losing his fingers or a hand might not be a death, it would end Aramis’s life. Would end all that was dear to him - shooting, soldiering, adventuring. They had all accepted the likelihood that they would die in battle but they refused to address the idea of being maimed or crippled and forced to live out an existence as a beggar in the court of miracles or a ward in a poorhouse or prison. That was more terrifying than death and that is what now was staring Aramis in the eye. Seeing Aramis, the bravest and most reckless man he knew, standing helpless and frightened before him struck a fear in Athos’s own heart so deep that his fingers trembled as he reached to unbuckle Aramis’s doublet.

The usually loquacious marksman stood docile and compliant as a child as Athos unfastened his belts and buckles, his head lowered to keep Athos from seeing his face. Athos was grateful, he did not trust his own emotions at the moment either. Athos loosened the ties at the arm and slid the sleeve over Aramis’s arm, careful not to disturb the sock or catch his fingers. He moved to the other side to start on the ties under the left arm.

“Athos,“ Aramis said softly, “I’m—“ 

“If you apologize,” Athos cut him off, “I’m going to punch you.” Aramis swallowed but said nothing more, letting Athos finish removing the doublet. “Sit there, closer to the fire,” Athos directed.

“D’Artagnan —“ Aramis began, but Athos interrupted again.

“I’ll see to him,” Athos commanded, “now sit.” Athos knew his tone was brusque. He felt compassion and concern but also felt he was barely holding himself together and knew Aramis would be looking to him for strength. He fell back into the role of commander, the place where he managed his emotions best and where he found the trademark calm he knew his men - and his friends - looked for in times of crisis. And this was a crisis as Aramis, who under normal circumstances would defy an order to keep breathing just because he didn’t like following orders, acknowledged Athos’s directive with no protest, moving closer to the fire and sitting as instructed. Athos picked up the cloak from the floor and draped it over his friend’s shoulders before turning his attention to D’Artagnan. 

As he worked to get D’Artagnan out of his leathers and to check his hands and feet for frostbite as well Athos tried to keep his mind from the forlorn figure of Aramis huddled before the fire. His mind turned to Porthos again who would be ready with a joke or a jibe to prod Aramis’s mind from the situation. That was not Athos’s way. He became quiet in dark circumstances. He was calculating, strategic and bold but not one to put much effort into emotional or physical comfort of himself or anyone else. But it didn’t mean he didn’t care for others. He would fight fiercely to protect any musketeer and with his friends, he could be downright affectionate. However, conversation had never been his strong suit but it seemed to be what was called for. 

D’Artagnan finally came around fully while Athos was manhandling him out of his uniform. He was groggy but could focus his eyes and Athos was able to get him on his feet to take a spot in front of the fire. He sat heavily beside Aramis, looking at him in confusion as Athos adjusted the bandage around the young swordsman’s head. 

“Aramis…?” D’Artagnan muttered the name as a question as he looked past Athos to the marksman, squinting as his eyes struggled with the brightness of the firelight. The head injury was not something to be ignored, but the fact that he was awake and aware was reassuring to both Aramis and Athos.

“I am alright,” Aramis said with a thin smile, “Just cold.” D’Artagnan hummed his reply, happy enough with the marksman’s answer. 

“Enough,” D’Artagnan said, swatting lazily at Athos as he finished tying the bandage. The cut was shallow and did not need stitches, it was the lump behind it that was concerning, “I need to lay down.”

“Are you going to be sick again?” Athos asked, looking around for a bucket or pan in the mostly barren room.

“Not if I lay down,” D’Artagnan mumbled, before lowering himself to the ground and curling up on his side. 

Athos rolled his eyes. He moved to the horses and unstrapped their bedrolls from their mounts. He pulled D’Artagnan’s blanket free of its lashings and dropped it in a pile on top of the Gascon. He’d figure it out Athos decided as the young man wriggled himself under the blanket. Athos turned to face the fire. Standing between Aramis and D’Artagnan and finally getting to strip off his own wet leathers, Athos decided he hated being the nursemaid.

Athos arranged things to dry before the fire as best he could, then draped his own blanket over his shoulders and picked up on of the cups of water, the metal hot enough that he needed the edge of the blanket to hold it. He sat down heavily beside Aramis, fighting the same cold and weariness that also urged him to lay down and sleep. The work was just beginning. It would be a long, cold night for the two men sitting together.

“Any change?” Athos asked.

“No,” Aramis said, raising his wrapped hands from where they rested in his lap so Athos could spread a blanket over his legs. 

“Here,” Athos picked up the cup of water. It was still hot in his hands, but he could handle it without the blanket, “Hold that between your hands.” Aramis raised both wrapped hands to grasp the cup awkwardly between his palms, his fingers refusing to cooperate. The look of despair that crossed Aramis’s face was heartbreaking. 

“Aramis,” Athos chided, a fond smile making its way to his face, “By all means, let’s make things as miserable as possible.” Aramis shot him a dark look and then his face softened and he couldn’t help but smile. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said, “But it’s hard not to see this as my future.”

“Think about something else,” Athos said as he took Aramis’s hands between his own. Carefully, he folded his hands around Aramis’s, easing the marksman’s uncooperative fingers to surround the cup, “You have yet to tell me about Madame Chevreaux.”

“An angel,” Aramis smiled, eyes lighting up at the memory, “Beautiful, gentle . . . and surprisingly flexible. I’ve never quite seen anything like it,” Aramis said, a mischievous glint taking over his eyes as Athos raised an inquisitive brow, “I had no idea a leg could bend like that. But the true marvel -- her sister.”

“Her sister?” Athos shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am never more serious than when I discuss the fairer sex,” Aramis said looking slightly offended that Athos would doubt him, “There is little I appreciate more than two sisters with the skills to rival that of a Persian contortionist.”

“When did you encounter a Persian contortionist?” Athos laughed.

“Three summers ago, the King’s Festival of Light at the Louvre,” Aramis said.

“As I recall you were on guard duty at the east gate,” Athos said, “Punishment from Treville for your appalling behavior with the Marquess de la Croix at the May Day celebration. The only action at the east gate is the coming and going of scullery maids and kitchen deliveries.”

“And misdirected Persian acrobats,” Aramis gave a shrug, “They stopped to ask for directions. Our eyes met, . . .” Aramis trailed off with an unapologetic grin.

“Sit here and catalog your list of circus performers to share with me for when I return. I’m going to stoke the fire and put some stones to heat,” Athos said, pushing himself up from the floor. Glad to have found a distraction for Aramis, Athos took the time to break up some more of the broken furniture for firewood. He pulled a rolled rug from the fire and managed to hook it over the open window he had crawled through, then leaned two broken shutters over the gaping doorway. He explored toward the back of the house where the roof had come down and was able to pick up some bricks from the crumbled walls to place in the fire. Finally, he pulled on his boots and wrapped his cloak around himself to go outside and look for heartier stuff to burn. 

The blast of cold air was debilitating, Athos immediately regretting not having put on his leathers and taken up his scarf. The wind was blowing the snow into drifts but it seemed the snowfall had tapered off from earlier. Athos made his way toward the ruins of the roof. With a little shifting of boards, he was able to find some relatively dry bits of crumbling roof that would burn longer than the sticks of broken furniture. He pulled out three thick pieces of broken timber and carried them back into the house.

The feeling of warmth was blessed and immediate. Despite the chill they felt sitting by the fire, it was significantly warmer in the dilapidated lodge. Athos deposited his armful of logs by the fire and removed his cloak, again spreading it near the flames to dry and warm it. He added one of the thick logs to the fire and stoked up the rest around it. The three logs should be enough to see them through the night. Athos took up his blanket, using it to turn the bricks before picking up another cup of heated water and returning to sit beside Aramis. He was glad to see the marksman looked more serene, a calm patience that Athos knew well. It was something that came over the marksman as he waited in position for a battle to start, a stillness of the mind that others in the regiment often envied. Aramis before a battle was often the calmest of all of them.

Athos and Aramis sat quietly side by side, staring into the rising flames, their fears currently held at bay by the warmth of the fire and comfort of a familiar presence. It was a temporary reprieve as they both knew the outcome was far from clear for Aramis, but for a few minutes at least they could sit and pretend this was just another fire on just another mission - until Athos picked up the cooling cup and decided it was time to swap this one for the one gripped in Aramis’s hands.

“Any change?” he asked as he gently pried the first cup from Aramis’s mitted hands. The marksman frowned as his fingers moved.

“Well that’s not pleasant,” Aramis winced, “Pins and needles,” he added by way of explanation.

“That’s good then?” Athos questioned the marksman, his medical knowledge better than Athos’s own.

“It is a positive sign, yes,” Aramis said, “But impossible to know yet what will be restored and what flesh is beyond repair.”

“See if you can get your hands around this,” Athos said, offering up the next cup. Aramis extended his hands and Athos placed the cup between Aramis’s palms. The marksman took it up as before, but this time his face looked pained as he worked to maneuver his fingers around the sides. Athos could see some motion beneath the stocking wrappings but after a bit reached out to again help Aramis mold his fingers around the cup.

“That’s better though,” Athos said encouragingly. Aramis hummed in agreement but kept his lips pressed tightly together. Just like anyone with cold limbs, there was pain as the flesh started to rewarm. Only with frostbite, the pain was much more severe. It looked to Athos that Aramis was starting to feel it. They settled again into silence. It took everything for Athos not to stare at the cup between Aramis’s hands as if he could will the fingers to heal and the flesh to be made whole. He suspected Aramis was having the same problem. 

Where Aramis had found an easy posture and calmer outlook before, now he sat stiffly, his body tense as it reacted to the pain of his warming hands. The marksman started to exhale audibly as he struggled to keep hold of the cup. Athos sat quietly beside him, unsure if there was any other comfort he could offer and wondering just how bad the pain was likely to become.

“Athos, this cup is too hot,” Aramis said between clenched teeth, “My hands are burning,” he said offering his hands to Athos so he could take the cup from him.

Surprised, Athos gingerly slipped his hands over Aramis’s again to feel the sides of the cup. It was pleasantly warm on Athos’s cold fingers, nothing more. 

“Aramis it is not the cup,” Athos said as the marksman looked at him, confused that Athos had not removed the offending object from his grasp, “Your hands are warming up.”

“Are you sure?” Aramis asked, clearly in pain.

“I’m holding it without the benefit of my woolens wrapped around my fingers,” Athos said, “It feels fine.” 

Aramis nodded, trusting Athos’s word despite what his hands were telling him. Athos gave a small reassuring squeeze to the fingers pressed beneath his own before releasing his hold on the cup. He stood, uncomfortable with leaving Aramis in pain but knowing there was nothing either of them could do. This was the process for warming the flesh. It had to be slow as to not cause more injury, persistent so that they could arrest the progression of the frostbite, and immediate as there could be no delays in treatment. Athos absently added some more wood to the fire, finding it difficult to ignore Aramis’s audible breaths as he tried to manage the pain. 

Suddenly Aramis let out a small gasp and Athos turned to see the cup rolling on the floor and Aramis half raised to his knees, his hands pressed stiffly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I could not . . .” the marksman trailed off, biting his lip as he fought not to cry out again.

“It’s alright,’ Athos said, picking up the empty cup, “I know it’s difficult.”

“Give me another,” Aramis panted, “I can hold it.”

“I have another idea,” Athos said, “But I’m not sure you will like it.”

“I like any idea that keeps me from losing my fingers,” Aramis said between breaths, “Just do it.” 

With an affirmative nod, Athos used a stick to pull one of the bricks from the fire. It placed a hand on it to test it and found it significantly warmer than the cup, almost too hot for his bare hands. Athos took up Aramis’s blue sash, now comfortably warm if not completely dry, and doubled it up before using it to wrap the hot brick. He picked up the wrapped brick, plucked his scarf from where it had been drying by the fire and knelt before the marksman. Athos held up the scarf in front of Aramis so he could clearly see what he intended.

“You will not be able to drop this when I am done,” Athos cautioned. Aramis gave a curt nod, his eyes determined and his jaw set. They needed to keep warming his fingers if there was any hope of saving them. Aramis looked ready to endure the flames of hell if it came to that.

“Sit back,” Athos directed, happy to see that Aramis understood his intent and eased himself to a crossed leg sitting position. Still, Athos had to guide Aramis’s arms to lay over his lap as he seemed unable to will himself to move his hands from where he had placed them protectively on his chest. Athos took up Aramis right hand and turned it to lay palm up in his own. With his left, he took the brick and placed it into Aramis’s palm. The marksman winced as his fingers stretched open but did not move the hand that held the brick. Still bearing the weight by keeping his hand below Aramis’s, Athos placed the marksman’s other hand and gently pressed it to the top of the brick, feeling the fingers straighten underneath his own.

“Can you hold that?” Athos asked. Aramis nodded and gave a half smile, reassuring Athos that he was alright. Athos released his hands, letting Aramis take the full weight of the brick. The marksman was unfaltering, but nonetheless, Athos worked quickly to wrap his scarf around Aramis’s hands, effectively binding them to the brick. As uncomfortable as he might get, Aramis would not be able to let go of the warm brick until Athos undid the knot. Athos guided Aramis to lay his hands in his lap again, letting the brick lay on Aramis’s thigh.

“How is that?” Athos asked.

“Clever,” Aramis said with a smile.

“I mean how does it feel” Athos replied.

“I am beginning to understand how Prometheus felt bound to a rock in Hell,” Aramis quipped but Athos could see the tension etched on his face. Athos picked up the cloak that had fallen from Aramis’s shoulders and settled it back over the marksman, pulling it forward to tent around him as he sat.

“You should have been a mother,” Aramis teased through clenched teeth.

“Who is to say I am not,” Athos replied sarcastically. “We need food and then rest,” and Athos stood again, this time to rummage in the saddlebags for their provisions. It was not without a modicum of joy that Athos discovered that both he and D’Artagnan had thought to bring bottles of wine. He also picked up Aramis’s medical pouch in which he knew he would find a flask of stronger spirits. It looked as if Aramis might need it.

Their modest fare of winter apples, hard bread and dried meat was more than adequate to feed them. Athos roused D’Artagnan, but the boy insisted his stomach would not hold the food and after a few sips of wine settled back down to sleep off a raging headache. Aramis, hands bound as they were, was unable to feed himself. Athos helped him to eat some slices of apple and bread soaked in wine but soon the marksman refused any more food, sitting stiffly with his head lowered to his chest, his breathing heavy.

“This will be my life if I lose my hands,” Aramis said, looking up at Athos with damp eyes, “Unable even to feed myself,” the bitterness and fear clear in his voice. They had come back full circle to the fear that Aramis had first held when he asked Athos for help.

“Things are improving,” Athos said calmly, “You have feeling in your hands and fingers. There is no reason to think that the damage cannot be reversed.”

“We have seen men who go through this only to lose fingers in the end,” Aramis said, voice thick with emotion, “I cannot live like this Athos, I cannot,” Aramis shook his head trying to scatter the tears that had formed in his eyes. “If it comes to it, do not take my fingers. I’d rather let the death spread to my heart than live like this.” Aramis held Athos’s gaze, begging for a promise that Athos knew he would not make.

“Aramis, stop this,” Athos said sternly, “Where is the faith you so often claim? Do you give up so easily?”

“It is hellfire itself that has captured my hands!” Aramis groaned, fighting his emotions, “There is no mercy in this.”

“Easy brother, I know,” Athos said putting a hand to squeeze comfortingly to the back of Aramis’s neck. With his other hand, he took a swig of wine from one of the bottles and then pressed it to the marksman’s lips, encouraging him to drink. Aramis refused at first, tossing his head away, embarrassed and horrified of been fed wine like a cripple, but Athos was insistent.

“Let me help you,” Athos encouraged, “there is no shame in what one brother does for another,” he said, again putting the bottle to Aramis’s mouth. With a soft half-choked sob the marksman relented, taking a long, deep pull from the bottle before Athos took it away. Wine trickled through the marksman’s meticulously trimmed beard and Athos took up an end of the scarf to blot it away. Aramis pulled his head back refusing the help.

“Leave it, just leave it,” Aramis said, disgusted. He kept his face turned away as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “This cannot be my life,” Aramis said, his voice cracking but his face still turned from Athos, “I cannot do this.” Aramis’s attempts to hide from Athos’s gaze did not matter, Athos could see the tears glistening on his cheeks in the firelight. He gave Aramis an affectionate squeeze before dropping his hand from Aramis’s neck to rummage in the medical pouch.

Aramis’s emotional anguish seemed even greater than his physical pain and Athos refused to let him suffer any longer without some relief. He found the flask he knew would be in the bag but continued looking until he found the only other thing he thought might help - a small vial of laudanum. He didn’t ask Aramis, he just took up an empty cup and poured a shot of whisky, then added a few drops of the dark brown liquid. 

“Drink this” Athos said, holding up the cup. The marksman refused to acknowledge Athos. The swordsman sighed, running a hand over his face before resting it at Aramis’s neck. He felt the marksman stiffen at the touch. “Aramis, please,” Athos said, surprised at the despair in his own voice. Something about his pleading tone must have registered though because with a deep sigh Aramis turned toward Athos, a look of resignation and shame upon his face.

Athos held up the cup and Aramis nodded his acceptance, letting the liquid fall between his lips as Athos held the cup. He drained it completely, then gave a little cough and raised surprised eyes to Athos as the strong spirits burned in his chest. 

“I thought the circumstances merited something more than wine,” Athos said as he put the cup aside, “Let me see this,” he added, reaching to slip a hand under his scarf and feel the brick. It had been over an hour now since he had first tied Aramis’s hands and the stone was significantly cooler than when he had first placed it. Within the wrappings of the scarf and sash, it was warm, feeling good on Athos’s chilly hands, but it would not do to get behind on keeping Aramis’s fingers warm. Athos now knew he would want to replace the stone every hour.

He helped Aramis to more wine before unwrapping the scarf and swapping the cooling brick for another from the fire. He took up Aramis’s hand as he had the first time, the woolen sock still covering it. They fingers though were more pliable, the hand less like that of a marble statue.

“We should look at your fingers.” The stricken look Aramis gave Athos was enough to make his heart clench again but they had to know if anything they were doing was making a big enough difference. Athos ignored his own trepidation and brushed past whatever Aramis was trying to express - although the marksman didn’t really say anything only let out a sigh and turned his face away. He seemed calmer and Athos suspected the whisky and the laudanum were taking effect.

Athos unrolled the long cuff he had made then carefully slid the stocking up Aramis’s wrist, rolled against his palm. He slid his thumbs under the roll of stocking and lifted as he pulled the covering off, careful not to catch Aramis’s fingers.

The hand in his was rough and reddened from exposure, but it was flush with the glow of life. Athos let out a relieved sigh then carefully folded Aramis’s fingers forward to test their flexibility. The marksman gave a small whimper but did not pull away.

“That hurts?” Athos asked.

“Pins and needles as before,” Aramis said, “and my fingers burn as if the hot brick was still there.” 

Athos unfolded the hand and held up Aramis’s hand by the wrist so he could inspect each finger in the firelight.

“A few more black spots have risen, but it is not much worse than before,” Athos said reassuringly, “Overall this is much better.” He picked up his head to give Aramis a smile but the marksman was still refusing to look at his hand.

“Aramis,” Athos said warmly, rubbing a thumb soothingly over the marksman’s palm, “Trust me. Look.”

Aramis took in a shuddering breath, then turned his head, but took in Athos’s gaze, not the hand held between them. His eyes searched Athos’s for something, truth perhaps. Athos was not sure what but he was unflinching under Aramis’s questioning eyes. Eventually, Aramis was satisfied with whatever he saw and he finally looked down to his hand, still cupped in Athos’s own. He cocked his head and slowly rotated his hand at the wrist, checking both sides. Licking his lips, Aramis curled his fingers, the digits moving of his own volition. Aramis gave a soft laugh, like a child making a discovery about his own fingers. He flexed his fingers deeper and this time winced, while they were better, they were still painful and the cold had gone deep. His joints probably still ached. Finally, he lifted his gaze to Athos again.

“Thank you,” Aramis said softly, joyful tears this time clouding his eyes, “I could not have . . . you saved the hand,” Aramis finished, bowing his head, overcome with emotion. Athos let out a relieved sigh and leaned over to kiss the top of Aramis’s head, his own emotions too powerful for words. 

Without further discussion, Athos re-wrapped the hand in the woolen stocking and then they repeated the process with the other hand. This one had been in better shape from the start, but now the fingertips were all blackened to the first knuckle. It was scary to see, but then Athos tested each segment of Aramis’s fingers, rolling them one by one between his finger and thumb. Aramis could feel pressure - and pain - in each segment. It appeared there was no permanent damage from the frostbite. 

Still, they would not take chances of Aramis’s fingers growing cold again. They wrapped the stockings over his hands again they Athos again tied them to the warmed brick. By the time he was done, Aramis’s head was drooping and he was fighting to stay awake.

“Wazz wrong with me,” Aramis slurred.

“I perhaps I put a little bit too much laudanum in your whisky,” Athos confessed.

“You drugged me?” Aramis’s eyes widened.

“Seemed the best thing to do for the pain - and your mood,” Athos said.

“My mood?” Aramis questioned as Athos encouraged him to lay down beside D’Artagnan.

“You were getting hysterical,” Athos shrugged as he pulled the cloak up over the marksman, his hands and the brick tucked underneath, close to Aramis’s chest where it would keep him warm in the night.

“Mm not ‘sterical,” Aramis slurred, “You mother too much,” the marksman tried to glare at Athos through his drooping eyelids.

“Go to sleep,” Athos said, ignoring Aramis’s continued attempts to protest, “I’ll swap out the brick in another hour.” 

Aramis huffed and mumbled and Athos swore he heard him say something about Persia, but then the words were replaced with a soft snore as Aramis finally drifted off. Athos took up the bottle of wine ready to keep vigil over the fire and his friends. He’d sleep after he finished the second bottle of wine, and swapped out the heated bricks two more times to make sure Aramis was alright. Aramis was right, he mothered too much. But Athos took a long drink from the bottle, draping a protective hand on Aramis’s shoulder. Damned right he was a mother and proud of it.


	7. Fugue in Four Parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An entry so short its more like a morsel than even a real bite
> 
> Prompt: Insomnia
> 
> Fugue:
> 
> Music
> 
> 1\. a contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase (the subject) is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts.
> 
> Psychiatry
> 
> 2\. a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment associated with certain forms of hysteria and epilepsy.

I

He sat with his back against the tree, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, hat pulled low across his eyes. It was past the third watch, he should have woken Porthos, but after all that had happened, there was no being, living or dead, that would keep him from holding vigil over his three sword-brothers til the rays of first sunlight came to end this terrible night.

II

He had fled the chill of his bed for the solace of the courtyard only to discover the startling cold of winter's first storm. The heavy snow muffled the sounds of the Paris, but not distant cries of twenty men falling under the sword in an ambush in the night. He shivered, thinking to find some wine and return to his rooms, but the solitary darkness there was even more unbearable. He sat on the table and tucked his arms around himself. He would wait till sunrise.

III

There was little light, but he knew the stable well and it was no difficult matter to find the stall of his spirited black Friesian. He laid a hand on the curry brush, which was just where he always left it and stepped into the stall. The horse, well accustomed to these visits, nuzzled him with an affectionate nose then snorted contentedly as he began to stroke her velvety back with the brush. He stopped after four strokes, leaning into the beast, grabbing a fistful of her mane and pressing his face into her musky coat. The horse took his weight without complaint or judgment that a grown man might still weep for the loss of his father.

IV

"What keeps you up at night then?" D'Artagnan asked, pouring more wine. The marksman raised an inquisitive brow and Athos lifted his head to hear the response.

Porthos sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. He hated these kinds of conversations. But to evade it would cause even more questions,. He looked up to three expectant faces and shook his head.

"What keeps me up?" Porthos said, a deadly look in his eye, "You three."

Even Athos laughed.


	8. The Measure of a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For me, this one is dark. For AO3 in general, it’s pretty tame :)
> 
> Trigger Warning: beating, torture, asphyxiation, sexual assault (not rape), hurt no comfort 
> 
> Prompt: Carved Mark

The kick hit him in the center of the sternum, forcing him backwards with enough momentum to send the entire chair crashing to the ground. He slammed his head on the dirt floor, and he saw stars as his lungs gasped for air. He still had enough awareness to curl in on himself, protecting his stomach and chest from the next set of kicks. His arms, bound tightly at the wrist behind his back, took some of the strikes meant for his kidneys. Painful as it was, it was probably helping keep him alive. And that was really his only job right now - stay alive. 

“Get him up,” the gruff command echoed in the chamber and the blows stopped. D’Artagnan felt large hands under his arms and he was pulled roughly to his feet. It was no matter that he didn’t have the strength to stand, two men nearly the size of Porthos held him dangling between them. He forced his swollen eyes open, wondering why they were still standing there. The chair he’d been in for the last few hours was splintered on the ground. It had crumbled to kindling beneath his body. That seemed like a small victory to D’Artagnan, he had at least destroyed a chair. His lips curled back in a smile and he huffed out a small laugh.

A fist cracked into his jaw and his head snapped back, pain blossoming like spikes through his skull. His vision swam and he closed his eyes against the immediate reaction in his stomach. He had nothing left to vomit but dry heaves were painful and did not stop him from being beaten while his stomach spasmed in agony. He fought to stay conscious, to settle his stomach, to breathe. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked up his head, foul breath coursing over his face.

“You still laughing, Musketeer?” The voice was harsh, haughty, full of contempt for the bloody and abused thing propped up before him. Much earlier during his interrogation, D’Artagnan had discovered how enraged the leader became with his cheeky comments. But that was before he had spent an indeterminable amount of time being beaten as man after man took their turn pummeling him. His body was a mass of bruises, he suspected cracked ribs and maybe some broken fingers. His knee wouldn’t hold his own weight and his arms had been stretched behind his back for so long that his fingers and hands were numb. He had stopped taunting them a long time ago and just endured it. Stopped trying to stoically hold his tongue - he moaned, cried when he had the breath and the strength, but never once did he beg for mercy. That he knew would come at a price he would not pay - the lives of his brothers.

“I’m going to cut that smirking smile right off your face,” the commander hissed into his ear. Something clattered in front of him and D’Artagnan was pulled forward and then pushed downward, falling heavily into another chair. He swayed and would have simply fallen over but the same two gargantuans who had held him up were there to force his arms up over the back of the chair. The bonds around his wrists were not to keep him from escaping, they kept him upright in the chair. They had knocked him and the chair over a few times before, both of them surviving mostly intact until this time. D’Artagnan wondered if his bones might shatter eventually, just as the chair had.

He felt his head pulled backwards — and this was new — a coarse rope snaked over his throat, pulling his neck against the top of the chair back, this one higher than his previous seat. The rope pulled taut and then downward and was then wrapped tightly around his forearms, forcing his tortured shoulders to stretch even further. The joints flared with searing fire and he couldn’t help the moan that tumbled out with his heaving breaths. The rope was tight across his throat but he could not pull his head forward, it was held in place by his own hands. If the chair fell this time, he could easily choke himself. He closed his eyes against this new pain and tried to just keep breathing. That’s what Athos always said to him, just breathe. It was about the only thought he could keep in his head right now.

He must have dozed off because the bucket of cold water that they threw at him had him waking up with a gasp. His entire body tightened and instinct had him trying to stand but he only served to tug on the rope around his neck and arms. He choked while his body panted with the agony of burning muscles and shivers from the frigid water. Around him, men laughed.

“Not laughing, Musketeer?” The other men laughed louder at the comment. “But this is funny,” more water doused him and D’Artagnan sputtered and coughed, the rope biting into his throat, his breaths coming in short pants. He felt like he was drowning. 

“Still no smile?” the comment was laced with sarcastic sadness, “Let’s see what we can do to make you laugh again.” 

Another chair was brought and placed before him and the commander sat down, his knees brushing D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he was really a commander, but that was what he had come to think of him. His men called him Sir and while they were bandits, they were organized the way military men might be. Former soldiers then, possibly deserters or maybe more Huguenots, like Gallagher and his band had been. 

Someone slapped his face, not lightly but not the ringing blows of earlier. He was hit again, and then again. The sting of his cheek now standing out among his other pains. D’Artagnan forced his eyes open to meet the commander’s gaze. Between the water and the slaps he was more cognizant of his surroundings than he had been earlier. D’Artagnan knew this coherence was short lived - his body was too exhausted to sustain much clarity or awareness once the beating began again.

“You are a stubborn little boy,” the commander said with mock chastisement, “No smile for me yet?” The commander slapped him again and D'Artagnan's head snapped to the left, the rope grating across his throat. Again he hit him and again, until the rope drew blood and D’Artagnan fought to find his breath again. 

“Where are they?” The commander grabbed a fistful of D’Artagnan’s shirt and pulled him forward in the chair, the rope cutting off his breathing even as his shoulders pulsed with fire.

D’Artagnan had few gestures of defiance left, but even as he fought for air his eyes found the commander’s and locked on his gaze. He might die here right now but he would do so without revealing the whereabouts of the other Musketeers. In his death, he would still win.

With a frustrated snarl the commander released him and D’Artagnan leaned his head back sucking air rapidly while trying to keep the tension off of his arms. He wasn’t much recovered when he felt a tug and his tattered shirt was ripped open to expose his heaving chest. The commander drew close again and D’Artagnan struggled to stay put as a hand was shoved down the front of his breeches.

He felt his cheeks flaming as the older man fondled him and he fought against the ropes even as they tortured his body and limited his air. He turned his head away as best he could, not wanting the commander to have the satisfaction of seeing him stripped of his dignity. The man’s hand squeezed and D’Artagnan gasped in pain.

“You ever see a bull get castrated, boy,” the commander said in his ear, “That’s what I’m gonna do to you. And after I take that, I’m gonna take your fingers, and your ears and your eyes,” the man’s breath was hot against D’Artagnan’s face, “You will beg me to kill you. Now where are they?” The man held him, fingers locked around him and D’Artagnan did all he could not to move a muscle or make a sound. It seemed to go on forever until suddenly D’Artagnan was released and the man pulled away. 

D’Artagnan didn’t move, just tried to regain his composure and steady his breathing. D’Artagnan knew what soldiers did to other soldiers sometimes, but he had never been subjected to such treatment himself. He was grateful for the long hair that shielded his face from view as he tasted the salt of a tear mingled with the iron tang of his own blood. The humiliation was as damaging as the beatings had been. He was little more than a bag of blood and bone and eventually that would break just as the chair beneath him had. More tears fell and he realized he didn’t care.

“Give me the knife,” the commander was back, his knees again pressed against D’Artagnan’s. But it wasn’t his pants that were grabbed. A hand pressed firmly at his chest, pushing him back against the chair before a searing fire was etched into his left breast over his heart. D’Artagnan howled in agony and his body arched against the ropes. The laughter of the men around him was muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. He forced open his eyes, to see what had been done to him. 

The commander held a knife, still dripping with D’Artagnan’s blood and was smiling with his men, crooning over the slash he had just carved in D’Artagnan’s chest. D’Artagnan looked down to see a bleeding line etched into his body. He had been cut before in battle but this had been excruciating. Perhaps all of the ill use had made him more susceptible to pain but then the answer became clear as the commander dropped the first blade and was handed another, this one glowing red from the heat of a fire.

Knowing what was coming this time, D’Artagnan went rigid and fought to pull himself off the chair despite the rope strangling him at every move and his arms and shoulders throbbing in agony. He still had to be pushed back against the chair, this time another man also pressed on his shoulders. The next cut came with the same searing pain as before but this time D’Artagnan also recognized the sickly smell of burning flesh. A thin trail of smoke wisped up from the new mark and D’Artagnan bit his tongue at the overwhelming intensity of the pain.

“Ready yet to tell me where they are, little boy?” The commander was enjoying this. He was smiling and his eyes shined brightly. D’Artagnan could not speak, he just pressed his lips together and fought to breathe.

The next cut came quickly. D’Artagnan howled again until his air was cut off by the thrashing of his own head. He choked and gasped as he fought for air, his visioning narrowing. He was about to pass out and he welcomed it. He was ready for a black oblivion to take him from this world. More slaps against his face. The stinging pain reviving him and pulling him back from the respite he sought.

“Don’t pass out on me, boy,” the commander snarled, “We are just beginning. I’m going to cut my way down to your balls, runt,” the commander laughed, “Now where are they?” 

D’Artagnan shook his head. He didn’t think he could endure much more of this but if the commander kept it up, he would choke himself and that seemed like a victory. If the commander wanted him alive it would be a good last laugh to die due to the man’s stupidity of putting a rope around his neck. 

The commander must have seen the glint of defiance in D’Artagnan’s eye. Infuriated, he shoved the knife into D’Artagnan’s shoulder, not slicing him, but stabbing him with an angry thrust. It went deep into the flesh by his shoulder and D’Artagnan screamed again. He was tugged forward, nthe rope pulling tight as the commander’s hand pressed the knife even more deeply into his flesh.

“Where are they?” the commander twisted the knife. D’Artagnan forced his eyes open, tears and blood making his vision blurry. He was losing his breath, losing the battle with his body, and death would be his release. The men around the room were silent now, his torture no longer bringing laughter. They were uncomfortable with what the commander was doing - it went beyond the limits of what even a soldier at war would do. He scanned their faces, looking for allies even as his vision dimmed. The world had one last gift for him though as his bleary eyes found the three faces he most longed to see again in this world.

He was certain death was drawing near when the commander finally released him. He leaned back in the chair raking in gasping breaths, the knife still impaled in his shoulder. His head lolled to the side and he blinked sluggishly trying to sort out reality from his visions. Those three faces had brought him light in the middle of a living nightmare. D’Artagnan’s lips twitched into a smile. He knew how much the commander hated that smile but he didn’t care. 

The commander leaned forward as one of his men handed him another heated blade. He growled as he caught up D’Artagnan’s hair, pulling his head up. The men watching shifted closer, sensing that something had changed in the commander, that something even more horrific was about to happen. The commander took up the blade between them and showed the glowing tip to D’Artagnan. Still pressing a hand against D’Artagnan’s forehead, the commander let his thumb stray over D’Artagnan’s right eye and he pulled the lid up with his thumb. 

“Where are they?” the commander whispered as he shifted the blade closer to D’Artagnan’s exposed eye.

D’Artagnan felt his smile deepen, felt the joy spread over his face until he wanted to laugh. He leaned in toward the knife point and bared his teeth in a feral grin.

“Behind you,” he whispered. 

The room blossomed into chaos, filling with the sound of steel on steel, the shouts of dying men, and above the din - laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know. I did terrible things to D’Art and then I didn’t fix him. . . 
> 
> There is a triumph of endurance and overcoming pain and humiliation for D’Art that I didn’t want to end in cuddles. I hope that comes through.
> 
> It’s ok to send hate mail :)


	9. No Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Knife to the Throat
> 
> This chapter is a response to the photo posted for the May Fetes de Mousquetaires challenge, and I’m double dipping so also a prompt fill for the bad things happen bingo card I’m s l o w l y working my way through.
> 
> You can get a link to the photo at the fete forum site on ffn - and see all of the responses to the challenge posted! - but in case you can’t access it imagine a man in leathers, two pistols drawn, standing before an ornate wall, its massive doors closed behind him. The room is clearly on fire, burning debris surrounds him, but he has planted himself before that door, ready for a fight. A crazed madman willing to lose his life for the sake of killing his opponents? Or the stupidest rescue plan ever….

The men who had captured him had not been kind. Of course, he had tried to escape, so he didn’t expect they would have been gentle with him after that. But D’Artagnan hadn’t realized how desperate these men were. Desperate men lost some piece of their humanity and they had handled D’Artagnan far worse than he would have treated a recalcitrant beast on his father’s farm.

He had been kept almost entirely in darkness, blindfolded when he wasn’t locked in a dark cellar somewhere. His hands were bound with thick hemp, and after he had wriggled out the first time, they had wet the knots before tying them and they had tightened as they dried. The only way out now was for the rope to be cut. At least his hands were bound in front of him or relieving himself would have been impossible. They had moved him twice, binding his ankles in a similar fashion, a rag stuffed in his mouth and tied in place with a gag and then thick sackcloth tied over his hands so he could not get the gag off. That was by far the worst as he felt he was choking, his tongue thick in his dry mouth, a sack over his head making breathing even more difficult. 

He had no idea where he was anymore. He might be far from Paris for all he knew. Nor did he yet have any idea what these men wanted with him. No one had questioned him and from what little he had seen, he was their only prisoner. They gave him water regularly but fed him stale bread and dried meat only occasionally. D’Artagnan could feel the effects as hunger sapped his strength and gnawed at his painfully empty belly. 

This last time when they had moved him they had not bothered untying his ankles - they had dragged him down a set of stone stairs like a sack of potatoes and deposited him slumped against a wall. They gave him water, tepid and bitter but he drank it greedily and they seemed content to let him have his fill. It was as kind a gesture as anyone had shown him since his captivity but any hope of better treatment was dashed when they gagged him again, although this time thankfully without the rag shoved in his mouth as well. The gag was uncomfortable and prevented him from shouting, but he did not feel like he was choking. Earlier on in his captivity, he would rub his face against the wall or anything he could think of to try and push off the gag or blindfold, but they only tied them tighter any time he was successful. 

He’d lost track of time as he was left so much alone and in the dark. These men didn’t seem to want anything from him but for him to be alive. There was no questioning, no torture, no threats. They kept him isolated enough that he could not really hear much of their conversation, but when it became heated he could hear the bitterness in their voices. They seemed uncertain in their course of action but convinced that D’Artagnan’s life was worth something. They had shot one of their own who seemed to think otherwise . . . That argument D’Artagnan had heard clearly as it had happened when a pistol was pressed to his skull. No matter, they had shot their own comrade, his bloody body slumping over D’Artagnan’s. They had dragged the corpse off to bury in the woods, leaving D’Artagnan covered in the man’s gore. 

No, they had not been kind.

D’Artagnan slid down the wall they had left him propped against and shifted onto his side, drawing in his limbs and curling like a cat before a fire. Although there was no fire, just cold flagstones. At least it was dry, not the damp, earthy root cellar he had been in for a while, its scent making him think of death and graves. They had not removed his blindfold nor the cloth over his hands so maybe this was just a temporary stop. He had been far more uncomfortable than this over the last few days - how many days he did not know - so D’Artagnan made the best of it. He slept.

He woke as he was pulled roughly to his feet. Still tied, he staggered, losing his balance and stumbling against one of the men. With a curse, the man shoved him and then backhanded him hard across the face. With no purchase, D’Artagnan crashed heavily to the floor, smacking his head hard enough for his ears to ring and to see lights flash behind his closed lids.

“Hey,” someone said above him as he was pushed over onto his back by a booted foot, “Keep yer ‘ands off ‘im.” D’Artagnan felt a tug at his bound hands and he was pulled into a sitting position and then leveraged up again. But this time he kept pitching forward until he was caught by a big shoulder and found himself slung over someone’s back. “‘e ‘as to be in one piece.”

“Dirty musketeer,” someone else muttered but then they fell silent as they made their way up the stairs, D’Artagnan dangling uselessly over the big man’s shoulder and using all of his will not to be sick behind the gag. He should have struggled, should have worried about what they needed him to be in one piece for, should have questioned why the man had referred to him as a ‘dirty musketeer,’ but his head was swimming, his stomach churning and it was hard to keep hold of a thought beyond that.

The ground leveled out and D’Artagnan realized they were in a larger space, voices echoing around the chamber. He worked hard to listen, to focus, to understand the words.

“See, here’s your musketeer,” someone was saying, “Now where is my brother?”

“Is he alive? I’m not interested in a corpse,” and D’Artagnan’s heart leaped because that cool smug careless voice was Athos and it didn’t matter now why they had him or what they wanted because Athos was going to kill them.

D’Artagnan’s world suddenly shifted and he was upright, only managing to stay that way due to the men holding him up. His legs were weak and he had no balance with his ankles tied together. He leaned heavily against the broad chest behind him as someone else gripped him under one arm. Something tugged at the back of his head and the blindfold fell from his eyes. D’Artagnan blinked owlishly, the light painful to eyes long used to darkness. But he tried to make out the blurry, over bright shapes before him. They were in a large room, a manor house? The shapes didn’t make sense, there was a tower in the middle? He tried to shake his head but a hand clamped down on his forehead, pulling it back against the shoulder of the big man holding him. He tried to shift but the press of steel against his throat stilled him. Tied and off balance as he was, he was completely at the man’s mercy. And he knew from his past experience with them that there was little if any of that to go around.

“Alive,” someone beside him said. D’Artagnan shifted his gaze to focus on the man who had been holding him captive all these days. He was broad-shouldered, silver-haired. Treville’s age perhaps. His hands looked strong - he had an ax in his belt and a sword in his hand. A former soldier? D’Artagnan didn’t know. His vision swam and he had to close his eyes. Something was not right. Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought in the cell?

“My brother,” the leader demanded

“Porthos!” Athos called out. D’Artagnan forced his eyes open again, his eyes adjusting better to the light but still, things seemed unclear. He looked past Athos, standing a few feet below him - below? Was he on a stair or a landing? He could see the tower in the room was scaffolding, but then the rows of brown benches, and thick columns. A church? He was on the altar. That didn’t bode well for having a knife at his throat.

There was a clattering and two big oaken doors at the opposite end of the church were flung open and bright sunlight streamed in. It all looked like a blazing ball of light to D’Artagnan and he squinted to make out a bulky figure emerging from the glare. It had to be Porthos. He had something - someone? - in his hand, which he tossed to the floor. Then the large man reached out his arms like Christ on the cross, grasping the two great doors and slamming them shut behind him. Porthos took a stand with his back to the door, thumbs looped in his belt, the bundle of cloth huddled at his feet. D’Artagnan blinked as the cloth seemed to move - and sit up, a man raised to his knees.

“You have what you want,” Athos said coolly, “Hand over my man,” he added stepping forward. Around him, D’Artagnan heard the swish of drawn blades.

“Don’t move,” the leader spat, “Take down his hood, let me see him.” No one seemed to move. “Do it,” the man sneered, “or this one will be a corpse.” 

D’Artagnan felt the knife press against his throat. Tied as he was, limbs weak and head fuzzy, D’Artagnan did not think he had ever felt more vulnerable. Even with Vadim, he had been able to move, to have some opportunity to fight against the circumstances. He swallowed thickly, feeling the blade more keenly. His life’s blood coursed just below the surface. He had seen men die from an injury to the neck, blood fountaining from a severed artery. He felt his breathing turning ragged beneath the gag. 

D’Artagnan forced his gaze away from the man on the floor that he knew with all his heart would not be anyone other than Aramis. There was no way the Musketeers would agree to any trade such as this for a prisoner or a noble. His eyes found Athos’s, the man’s head cocked in just a way that the shadow from his hat didn’t stop D’Artagnan from finding the bright blue eyes that locked immediately to his. Athos must have been desperate to try such a useless plan, hoping to be close enough to rescue D’Artagnan when the ruse was found out. But he was too far away from the altar standing as he was in the center of the church and Athos had to know it. His eyes bored into D’Artagnan’s and he knew Athos was trying to tell him something. But it didn’t matter. D’Artagnan felt his heart pounding. Helpless as he was, he could not bear to accept death. His heart was fighting even if his body was not. 

“I told ya this wouldn’t work,” Porthos’s voice growled from the other side of the church. He raised a beefy hand and slid the hood off of the man kneeling beside him. It was no surprise to anyone that the man on the ground was not the leader’s brother. The two men exchanged a long look between them.

“Needs must, Porthos,” Aramis said, patting his hand over his heart, his mouth set in a grim line.

“I’m not the fool you think I am,” the leader growled, “I expected duplicity from Musketeers.” From out of the shadows of the archways a dozen more men appeared, weapons drawn.

“The King will not negotiate for the life of a musketeer,” Athos said calmly, “Your only option is to surrender.”

“Surrender,” the man laughed, “The three of you are outnumbered, and if you move, the first one to die is the boy,” D’Artagnan felt his head pulled back, his throat further exposed. He lost eye contact with Athos. Above him, his eyes found the colorful rosette of a leaded glass window, the sunlight showing the dove descending into the holy fire of the sacred heart of Jesus. A tremor shook his body as D’Artagnan tried to focus on the light of the window and the hope of eternal life that the image represented. He felt his eyes fill - he did not want to die. Not here, not now, not like this. A muffled sound escaped from his throat, masked by the gag, but it was enough to elicit a small rumble of laughter from the man holding him.

“Gonna enjoy cutting you,” the man growled in his ear.

“This is your last warning,” Athos said. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry at the man’s cockiness.

“Enough,” the leader sneered, “Louis might not negotiate for one musketeer but when I send the boy back dead with the promise of three more corpses, he will listen. Take them,” the leader ordered and the men started to move along the rows of pews, converging toward Athos. A few split off toward the back of the church where Aramis still knelt by Porthos’s side. 

“Porthos, now!” Athos yelled, and several things happened at once. Porthos threw a heavy round object up into the air. Surprised, all eyes tracked up to the ball as it reached high up into the vaulted ceiling - all except Athos who did just the opposite, hurling himself to the ground and rolling beneath a pew just as the crack of a pistol sounded. The sound of the bomb blast was deafening.

Ignited by a shot from Aramis, the bomb exploded in the rafters sending shrapnel of burning wood and shattered glass raining down on the unprotected men in the asp of the church. D’Artagnan forced his head down instinctually, even as the blade dragged across his throat. His shout was stopped by the gag but he felt a searing pain and the warm slick of blood falling. His captors dropped him and he landed heavily on his knees, still bound, feeling his life’s blood coursing from his neck and down his shirt front. The world was hazy but the Musketeers were fighting hard to get to him. Athos had popped up from under the pews and was fighting the men who had not been felled by the debris from the ceiling. Fire licked down the sides of the church and the smoke made lungs and eyes burn. The timbers in the vaulted ceiling were burning, great chunks of wood starting to drop down over the fighting men. Many had abandoned Athos to try to make their way past Porthos, who stood with his back to the door, three sets of pistols strapped to his body and two in his hands. Like the archangel Michael guarding the gate of heaven, he rained fire down on any who sought to pass through the door.

D’Artagnan’s sight was greying, the sounds receding as he panted in fear and pain into the gag strapped tightly around his mouth. Tears formed in his eyes from the smoke and ran down his cheeks to mix with the blood gushing from his throat. Time was still and D’Artagnan thought he was taking a very long time to die. Then hands were on him, pulling him physically backward even as the motion tugged his consciousness back into focus. He hurt. His neck throbbed with every heartbeat, the bindings tight around him, the gag choking him. He bucked and struggled but was laid out on his back and something was pressed heavily against his throat. The pressure was firm and insistent, not enough to choke him but with the gag still in his mouth, D’Artagnan felt like he couldn’t breathe. He struggled to move only to have something - a knee maybe - press hard into his chest.

“D’Artagnan stay still,” Aramis’s voice was urgent, “Don’t fight me, I have to stop the bleeding.” D’Artagnan fought to still his body from its instinct to push the obstruction away from his throat. Unable to breathe through his mouth he was sucking air rapidly through his nose, panic rising with each choking breath. He forced his eyes open, pleading for someone to understand that he couldn’t breathe, small strangled sounds slipping past the gag. 

Aramis was sitting on top of him, hands in a cloth pressed against D’Artagnan’s throat. The pressure on his throat was terrifying. Desperate, he banged his head against the floor. Once, twice and then Aramis caught him at the back of the head the third time. The marksman looked down at him, eyes blazing, as D’Artagnan choked and sputtered into the gag. Aramis’s eyes narrowed.

“Hang on,” Aramis said, laying D’Artagnan’s head back on the ground. The marksman reached behind him and drew his main gauche from its carrier at his back. In one swift cut, the gag dropped away and D’Artagnan started to gulp air, his chest heaving despite the weight of the musketeer sitting on top of him. Aramis ignored him, choosing to focus again on staunching the wound at his neck. As his breathing steadied D’Artagnan found himself whimpering as he gasped but he didn’t care as fear, exhaustion, and pain took hold of him. He closed his eyes but the tears slid down his cheeks nonetheless. He felt a warm hand on his forehead, someone said something soothing but his ability to think was receding. The hands at his neck shifted, the pressure let up a moment and D’Artagnan cracked an eye open. A bright red cloth, soaked through with his own blood, was tossed to the side and something else placed under his throat. The pressure resumed and then Aramis was saying something but D’Artagnan was too far away to hear it. His eyes focused on the cloth, completely saturated, wondering how much blood he would lose before he died. Fixated by a thought of Constance trying in vain to wash the blood from the cloth, he slipped away into unconsciousness.

—xxx—

He woke gently, noticing the warmth around him first. Blankets he realized and something softer than the cold ground below him. His limbs felt too tired to move, but the burn and sting of the ropes were gone, as were the cramps in his muscles from being bound. He shifted slightly under the blanket to find soft cloth wrapped around his abraded wrists. His boots were off as were his leathers but he felt safe and warm and not very interested in waking up. He was uncertain where he was but he heard the crackle of a fire and his empty stomach responded to the smell of something being roasted. The voices of his three companions rose softly on the cool night air but none of that was enough to pull him truly to wakefulness. But his throat was dry and scratchy and he was thirsty. Very thirsty. And very alive. D’Artagnan opened his eyes even as his hand drifted up from under the blankets to press lightly at his neck, swathed in bandages. D’Artagnan turned his head toward the voices of his friends, sitting closely together just on the other side of the fire. They were bandaged too and their clothing full of soot, ash, and blood, but here they all were basically none the worse for wear. D’Artagnan smiled.

“He’s awake,” Athos’s low voice carried from the other side of the fire. There was a small bustle of activity and then the others shifted out of his sight only to crowd around him on his pallet on the ground. It was Aramis who reached to put a hand on either side of his face, looking for eye contact from D’Artagnan.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked. D’Artagnan tried to answer but all that came out was a croak followed by a raspy and rough choking cough. His hands flew to his neck, pressing in fear against the bandages as if he might fall apart.

“Easy, easy,” Aramis shushed him and pulled his hands away, even as Porthos got a grip on his shoulders and raised him to a sitting position. The coughing started to subside and D’Artagnan found Aramis’s hand under his chin pulling his head up to look at him again. “Your throat is intact, it is just dry from thirst and the smoke. Yes?” Aramis held his gaze, a question in his eyes until D’Artagnan was able to process what had been said. His throat was fine. He was fine. Just thirsty. He nodded.

“Here,” Athos said, putting one of their tin camp cups into D’Artagnan’s hands. Still leaning on Porthos to stay upright, D’Artagnan raised the cup to his lips and let the cool water slide down his tender throat. He finished off the entire cup before letting out such a contented sigh that the three men around them laughed.

“Sounds like you after you finish a bottle of wine,” Porthos teased Athos.

“Better?” Aramis asked D’Artagnan. He nodded his response, not trusting that he would have a voice, and extending the cup, wanting more water. Athos took it to refill it and Aramis brushed a hand over D’Artagnan’s forehead. He knew the marksman was checking for fever but still, the gesture was comforting and after all he had been through the small act of kindness overwhelming. He ducked down his head, afraid for the emotion that might show in his eyes.

“Hey,” Porthos nudged him, “Happens to all of us,” he rumbled reassuringly, “It’s Aramis, he’s such a flirt.” At that D’Artagnan laughed but the coughing returned and another cup of water followed. 

They got him settled with a plate of the chicken that Porthos must have nicked from a farm somewhere and as much water as he wanted. While he ate the others told them about how he had been taken by a man called Etienne Rambert who wanted to exchange him for his brother, Laurent, who had been taken into custody by the Musketeers a few weeks before D’Artagnan had petitioned joined their ranks as a cadet. The court had found him guilty of extortion and he was sentenced to 5 years in the Chatelet, but apparently, Etienne thought he had been framed by Treville. Hence their kidnapping of D’Artagnan and the days of hiding and rough handling as they bargained to set up a prisoner exchange. Of course. Louis was never going to agree to allow a Musketeer let alone a non-commissioned one to be used as leverage against him, but Etienne was not likely to know that or D’Artagnan’s true status. The set-up took time but once the wheels were in motion they moved swiftly. Still, they came up a bit short when they arrived at convent of Santa Maria, still under construction just outside Paris.

“We didn’t think he’d have that large of a force,” Aramis explained, passing another piece of bread to D’Artagnan. “And with the guards he had patrolling it seemed unlikely we could sneak in and rescue you. We weren’t even sure where they were holding you.”

“In the cellar,” D’Artagnan croaked, his voice still hoarse from the abuse to his throat. That earned some dark glances between his comrades, clearly still angry about what had been done to their young protege. 

“Then I was right,” Aramis said with a hard shift in tone, “Your plan would have never worked,” he directed that last comment at Athos. The only response he received was an arched brow.

“Etienne ‘ad over a dozen men,” Porthos picked up the tale, “We couldn’t take on that many so we ‘ad to figure ‘ow to even the odds.”

“We sent Athos in to negotiate since he’s so good at that,” Aramis raised his glass to their Lieutenant and got a friendly smirk this time.

“Of course I demanded he show that you were still alive,” Athos continued the story, “So once we knew where you were we had to draw out his men.”

“I knew right away that they would see through that terrible disguise,” Porthos said as he filled his wine cup, “Aramis should have bandaged his face like I said.”

“And then maybe missed the shot at the bomb?” Aramis chided, “Don’t be foolish.”

“Wait,” D’Artagnan rasped, “Your plan was the bomb? You weren’t improvising?”

“A pretty good plan I thought,” Porthos said with a grin, clearly the one who had instigated it.

“Your plan,” D’Artagnan sat up straighter, putting down his plate, “was to blow up a building — with us still inside?” 

“It worked,” Porthos shrugged. D’Artagnan sputtered and choked, unable to find any words at the sheer idiocy of their plan.

“That was a terrible plan even if it did work!” he finally coughed.

“I told you it was a bad plan,” Athos said over the brim of his cup.

“You….” D’Artagnan croaked, “You let them do it!” 

“To be fair,” Athos said, “We did have the element of surprise.”

“Surprise,” D’Artagnan was not happy, “You surprised the guy with a knife at my throat. Did you think of that?” Exasperated, D’Artagnan picked up a stick from the pile and start poking angrily at the fire. He had almost died. His throat cut. These men he had taken up with were reckless, foolish and quite possibly insane. Not for the first time since he had petitioned to join the regiment, he wondered what he was doing.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said softly. With a sigh D’Artagnan looked up, the three men staring at him with curiosity and also . . . something else. An unabashed tenderness that he had only ever thought to see in his father’s eyes. He felt his anger start to seep away even before Aramis continued on, “The circumstances of your injury are . . . regrettable to say the very least. But we knew the odds when we came up with the plan.”

“I knew I could take at least half of them, but we had to eliminate the others somehow,” Athos said.

“We had to get in the door,” Porthos explained, “and the easiest way in was the most obvious. We knew they would suspect a trick so we gave them one to draw out the rest of the troops.”

“I came up with the explosion in the rafters,” Aramis said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair, “I knew that fire raining down from Heaven would confuse everyone and yet from where we were all standing, we were protected from the debris. Except for Athos of course, but he had the pews for protection.”

“When we saw what bad shape you were in,” Porthos said, “We ‘ad to act fast. I saw the situation, I asked Aramis but he said what we all knew was true.”

“You asked him?” D’Artagnan was confused.

“Not everything needs words,” Athos replied, giving D’Artagnan a soft look that pierced him right to the heart and proved his statement.

“As I said then,” Aramis sighed, “Needs must. We had to do what we had to do. We have seen enough fights to know it is not as easy to cut a man’s throat as you might believe. More times than not unless a man knows what he is about they go too low - they miss all the important things but cut into the tissue below the Adam’s apple and gruesome as all the blood appears, it is not fatal if treated quickly.”

“You knew you could save me,” D’Artagnan breathed.

“We knew your chances were better in our hands than in theirs,” Athos corrected.

“What happened to them? Did you bring them to the local authorities?” D’Artagnan asked, “We are not taking them back to Paris?” The three men exchanged a look between them that D’Artagnan could not understand but knew it to be more talking without words.

“Those men are dead,” Athos said, uncorking the wine bottle.

“All of them?” D’Artagnan whispered.

“All of them,” Porthos answered.

“Did you think we would settle for anything less?” Aramis asked pressing another cup into D’Artagnan’s hands, this time though it was full of wine.

He looked up at them. They all looked so earnest. Hardened soldiers. Reckless men. Often foolish. Quite possibly insane. And D’Artagnan was in every way grateful that these idiots, were his idiots. He smiled and lifted his glass to them. Athos was right, sometimes you need no words at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should add that I did a lot of careful googling to discover that it is plausible to have your throat slit and survive. The internet tells me that if you cut too low you miss all of the important sutff and get a lot of blood but if treated immediately with pressure on the wound, completely survivable. I'm no doctor and no musketeer, so what do I know anyway about anything?
> 
> Also, the fire at Notre Dame has been on my mind for a while so I'm not surprised a church was the location I conjured up from the image. I didn't have the heart to burn Notre Dame again so instead, a convent to Mary, but my thoughts are still with the people of Paris and the significance of that loss. I visited for the first time in December 2018 and found Notre Dame overwhelmingly beautiful. I will remember it always.


End file.
